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Moore unfastened his straps and heaved his tank over into the boat's bottom。 Then he painfully pulled himself over； his muscles tight and unyielding； and quickly cranked up the anchor with the hand winch。
He laid the anchor in the bow； started up his motor； and swung the skiff around to follow in the thing's wake。
He drew up alongside it off the starboard beam； keeping well away in case it suddenly turned or heeled over for the bottom。 It was riding low； the waves sliding across the bow and crashing with a hollow boom against the conning tower。 A mass of black cables and wires； secured to the forward deck； writhed like angry snakes。 The paint was almost pletely scoured away to reveal the dark； sea…weathered iron； but here and there remained patches of rust…colored primer and even the original dingy gray。 Moore could almost have sworn the old relic was operating under its own power； so straight was its direction； but of course the thing was long deserted…there was no noise of racketing diesels； only the relentless pounding of the sea。 He turned the tiller a few degrees； moved in for a closer look。 From the distance of only a few yards he could see the rivets in the conning…tower plates； and the sight was oddly disturbing。 The plates looked like scales on a huge； prehistoric reptile。 A cable as thick as Moore's arm hung down across the tower bulwark； slapping iron。 He recalled a picture he'd seen in an encyclopedia as a child： a black…finned monster rearing high above storm…tossed waves to snap its jagged teeth through the neck of a pterodactyl。
He was entranced by the thing； lost in its aura of power and ancient menace。 In another few moments he heard the noise of the sea rushing around the Kiss Bottom reefheads； there were figures standing on the fishing wharfs and beach； others watching from the boatyard。 The submarine began to turn； almost imperceptibly； for the opening in the reef； drawn by the influx of water there。 Moore turned his skiff to avoid scraping across a gnarled； green…slimed bommie； then found himself in the midst of jagged reefheads。 Someone shouted something from the fishing wharfs； but Moore couldn't hear。 The hulk looked like it might pass unscathed through the reef into Coquina's tranquil harbor； but then he heard a loud grinding of iron across coral。 Sea foamed at the bow； and the forward deck began to rise。 The currents were driving the hulk across the reef； bits of coral shattered and collapsed under the thing's weight。 The submarine shuddered； grinding forward； the bow rising out of the sea like a knife's black blade。 And then； abruptly； the grinding noise stopped。 The submarine was wedged on Kiss Bottom； its bow out of the water but its stern deck still awash。 Moore could clearly see the closed vents of the two forward torpedo tubes on the starboard side； and a chill touched the flesh at the back of his neck。
There was more shouting from shore； but Moore wasn't paying attention。 Gulls swooped down from the blue； they circled； screaming； above the hulk； then sailed away on their currents of air as if disdaining contact with the thing。 Moore drew nearer； the submarine loomed above him； angled crazily； now motionless。 As the breeze swept across it he caught the stench of age； of a slow decay； it smelled to him like the carcass of a pilot whale that had beached itself in a directionless search for the sea。 Moore's skiff moved into the submarine's shadow； and it towered over him。 He cut his motor； tied a line onto the collapsed deck railing； and with a smooth； powerful movement； pulled himself up the railing to the submarine's deck。
Part of the forward deck had caved in； he could see where the deck plankings had given way。 There was still a lot of sand left aboard； it slithered with quiet hissing sounds around Moore's feet and lay in clumps among the twistings of cables。 Just forward of the conning tower there was a deck gun； still firm on its mount and apparently in good shape but for the wet sand that dripped from its muzzle。 Moore moved toward the bow； walking gingerly on the slippery planking。 He reached the deck gun and hung on to it。 Forward of the gun was the square outline of a deck hatch which appeared to be secured。 Ahead of him the bow's sharp spear challenged the sky； railings were twisted and broken； iron scarred and gouged。 He left the gun and worked his way forward as if climbing a steep hill。 When he glanced back he saw the gun's bore； black and deadly looking。
He had taken only another step when the planking gave way beneath him。 As he slid through the hole he reached out； grasping a cable； it held and he pulled himself back up on deck； his heart hammering。 Through the splintered opening Moore saw a gleaming； massive metal tube。 He knew very little about submarines； but he figured that the tube； protected by the iron and timber of the superstructure； was actually where the guts of the boat lay。 The pressure hull； he remembered it was called； was resistant to the great depths at which these boats had moved。 Along the iron sides of the superstructure； the shell that protected the intestines； were dozens of ducts that allowed the water to stream in； cushioning the pressure hull。 The engines； the control room； the crew's quarters； all the other partments and stations necessary to the submarine's operation were inside that tube。 It looked smaller than he would have imagined。 How many men would have manned this thing？ Twenty…five？ Thirty？ Fifty？ It seemed impossible that they could have found space to move。
Now there was only the noise of the sea swirling across the submerged aft deck； a series of whispers and groans。
A dead relic； Moore thought； staring at the mass of the conning tower。 He saw above it the periscope he'd been trying to dig out。 There was a second shaft that looked like another periscope； but this was battered and slightly bent to one side。 As the sun baked down； the smell of decay rose all around him。 When did this thing go down？ he wondered； and what boat was it？ There were no identifying symbols or numbers； if there had ever been any； the sand had scraped them off。 He felt like a fly crawling along the maw of a crocodile that had e up to sun itself on the rocks。 Why； he wondered； did he sense something living about this boat now so long dead？
Moore heard the distant pounding of engines。 At first the sound chilled him until he looked toward the harbor and saw one of the beat…up old fishing trawlers approaching with men at the gunwales。 A cluster of islanders had gathered on the wharfs； and children were running up and down the beach as if at some kind of festive celebration。 He waved a hand at the trawler and a man at the bow waved back。
The trawler； its engines rumbling； pulled up alongside； two brawny islanders leaped over onto the submarine's deck。 Lines were thrown and secured； an anchor chain rattled down and a gangplank was tied into place between the trawler and the hulk。 Most of the men seemed reluctant to e aboard but one； a broad…shouldered black wearing a dark…blue cotton shirt and khaki trousers； crossed the gangplank and came over to Moore； avoiding the holes that gaped in the planks。
The man was not quite as