SETTER was at Diving Stations. The hands of the electric clocks showed ten minutes to seven: the needles in the depth-gauges hung at thirty feet: the telegraphs were at slow ahead and the helmsman’s steering indicator showed that the course was oh-eight-five. MacGregor was hunched at the big periscope, sweeping slowly round, sunlight reflected through the lenses making his eyes shine like a cat’s. In the corner, Hutchins swept round too, with his Asdics, sweeping as carefully and as methodically as the Captain, only using his ears instead of his eyes.
Olsen’s heart was pounding and his palms were wet. He leant against the Fruit Machine and he thought, This is worse than an attack, worse almost than being depth-charged! It was the climax of all the waiting, all the hoping, all the near-dis
