He smiled blearily. This would be the ultimate if they unleashed the expensively intricate homing torpedo--at one man riding a cheap minisub constructed by a big-handed, happily singing petty officer on his own time. He hoped they _would_ waste the torpedo on him. If he had to be destroyed by a gadget, an infernal machine, at least it was better to be killed as an individual rather than in a group so large he would be nameless in death. Abruptly the sonar left him. They must have decided he was not going to lead them back to his submarine. Now they were hurriedly ranging for it. He cruised on and on with his dead cargo. Then he felt the echo of sonar from the submarine's hull. He must be close. The helicopter, with its sonar system lowered into the water like a fisherman's hook, had caught the Fleet Ballistic Missile submarine. He could feel the submarine's sonar searching frantically. They would be sounding for another submarine. He could imagine horror on the sonar men's faces as they realized they couldn't detect anything at the apparent source of the unidentified sonar that had caught them. The submarine's sonar caught something--him. * * * * * He steered directly into it and found the submarine. Bow into the current, the gray undersea boat was still holding its position. The Murderer guessed the commander had decided that the best move was no move. Valving out air, he brought the minisub down, opened the outer hatch and dragged the minisub into the water-filled chamber. A great weariness had come over him and it was all he could do to lock the hatch. He knocked on the bulkhead, while the persistent sonar pinging went on and on. Someone tapped very gently, although they might as well hammer with a wrench; it wouldn't make any difference now. The Murderer realized they were waiting for him to plug into the telephone socket and give his maximum depth and time spent there and other decompression data he hadn't kept. They intended to decompress him as if this were just another safe-and-sane training exercise. In the chamber lights, Barney's rubber suit had sagged over the side of the minisub like a black rag doll. The Murderer averted his eyes and plugged in. "One--two--three--" he said automatically. "Barney?" "Barney's dead." "This is the commander. There is a submarine out there. For some reason, we can't locate it with our sonar. Have you seen it?" "Commander, it's a helicopter. They have an anti-submarine torpedo in the water." "I'm having difficulty reading you--" "Helicopter. Anti-sub torpedo!" "Did they take any aggressive action against you?" "Depends on how you look at it. Their picket buoys are under here. Barney tried to recover one. It was booby-trapped to destroy itself." "Barney?" the commander's voice persisted. "I told you he's dead! I got one of their divers." "One of their divers? He was attacking you?" "I killed him. He was trying to get away."