The sea has always been a symbol of uncontrolled power and infinite movement. Its rhythms are the rhythms of Life itself... for Life began in the primeval oceans...
Roger Adams was a man who dreamt of the untold wealth lying beneath the inscrutable waves of the Atlantic deeps. His mind filled with visions of Lost Continents, sunken galleons and the limitless possibilities of undersea farming. He same his meagre capital into a neck-or-nothing gamble and fought desperately against time and rude to turn his dreams into reality.
The unexpected stowaway added to his problems and then his diving began to pay dividends. The Atlantic Deeps gave up some of their secrets... but each enigma led to greater riddles. Then came the discovery that pointed to world-shaking consequences. Hidden beneath the great rollers lay supernatural forces so immense that the Kraken and other monsters of popular mythology were harmless toys beside it.
The force which had submerged continents was stirring once more...
Release date:
September 30, 2014
Publisher:
Orion Publishing Group
Print pages:
320
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ROGER ADAMS closed his ledger, nodded to his assistant clerk, stood up, stretched with a rather deliberate, self-conscious movement, and crossed the carpet with two measured paces. His assistant made a polite movement in the direction of the coat rack.
“All right, I’ll get it thank you.” Adams smiled appreciatively as the assisant clerk opened the door for him. Courtesy, he thought, isn’t dead. It may on the other hand be pure, unadulterated flannel. It wasn’t really important, he thought. Nothing in the office had significance or impact. It was a place where you came from nine o’clock till five, with an hour off for lunch. It was an old-fashioned jumble of book-files and indexes, one of the last out-posts of Dickensian commercial practice that could still be found in the Metropolis. Adams made his way out and caught the ’bus over the river. He had a cursory look at his fellow-passengers, not a very prepossessing set, thought Roger. He was bitterly dissatisfied with the ordinariness of life. The chips on his shoulders were so much a part of his attitude that at times he thought they must be visible. He pulled somebody’s discarded newspaper from the gentle grip of seat and back rest and scanned it without a great deal of interest. The economics minister was trying to deal with rising prices. The foreign minister was embroiled in the internecine politics of the Middle East. The Kremlin rumbled halfhearted threats, while notes shuffled hotly between Pekin and Washington. Somebody had been indiscreet enough to leave an unclad cadaver in the Serpentine. Another notoriety seeker had sprayed a Greek café proprietor with dum-dum bullets somewhere in the Square Mile; there had been a racial clash in Notting Hill, and a vice raid in Bayswater.
He turned the pages idly without enthusiasm. The Dowager Duchess of somewhere unpronouncable in the West Country was visiting the City in connection with a snob charity function; various stage and screen celebrities were arriving, departing and being interviewed; and sport—the pursuit of a ball by a number of burly gentlemen who might have put their talents to better use—occupied nearly as much space as the racing results and tips. Roger put the paper down with a cynical smile. There didn’t really seem to be very much in it, he thought: a threepenny sample of the tawdry aimlessness of life. Adams, he thought, there must be something wrong with you. Every week thousands of men get deeply involved, emotionally and otherwise, in racing and Soccer, in wrestling and Rugby and boxing and all the other things that leave you cold. Why can’t you be normal, Adams? He shrugged almost imperceptibly, unable to answer his own question. Millions watch stage plays, cinema screens, television presentations, yet you have no interest in the theatre; apart from the news you see little television, and be honest with yourself, man, even the news bores you. Yes, it does, answered another part of his mind. So what does affect you? Sport? Art? Crime? Politics? These things all seem unreal, artificial, thought Adams. They’re all so ordinary, so predictable, so repetitious, so tame, I want something more. I want a reality beyond reality. I want to get off the roundabout so that I can see it as a whole. I want to stop the machinery so that I can look underneath and see exactly just what makes it work. I want to analyse it. I want to break it down, not destructively, but enquiringly. I am more interested in the mechanics of the thing, than in the purpose that the mechanics serve. To me, knowledge of the engine that drives life is more important than the apparent life that it drives.
He reached his flat, a small, two roomed, bachelor affair without the relief of feminine fripperies, without the merciful addition of flowers or brightly patterned floral curtains. It was a plain, simple and very practical living box. He didn’t feel particularly hungry or thirsty. Afternoon coffee in the office was served late and Roger normally read for an hour or two after arriving home and then went out for a meal. He went to his library shelves and took out a book on Atlantis. In the pages of the so-called mythology, thought Roger Adams, there was a greater reality than the tinsel superficiality of the world outside. Here was something far more important than his ledger, his pen, the files in the office, the hat and coat he wore on his way home. Here was something that had a greater reality in an infinite sense than the ’bus or any of the news items in the discarded evening paper on the seat beside him. This was more than Twentieth Century politics; this was more than Sport or Art. Here was a mystery so deep and old it completely absorbed the attention. He read avidly for over an hour, and then realised that hunger was gnawing gently but firmly at his entrails. He was just preparing to go out for supper to the little café two blocks away when the ’phone rang. He looked at it perplexedly. He had it there for convenience, but he made far more calls than he received, and he didn’t make above twenty a quarter. Adams was not exactly anti-social but he preferred not to bother. He was happier—far happier—alone with his books, his thoughts and his dreams—his dreams of great lost continents, his fascination with the enormous Atlantic and the vast deeps below it. He lifted the ’phone and said, quietly, “Roger Adams, here.”
“Good evening, sir.” The voice was professional, smooth, suave almost. “I am Mortimer Perrivale of Perrivale, Dawlish and Co., Solicitors. I tried to get you at your office this afternoon, but unfortunately the line was engaged. I hope you don’t mind my calling you at home.”
“No, not at all. What’s this all about, Mr. Perrivale?”
“I am very sorry to inform you that your great uncle Bryan has died. Mr. Bryan Adams was one of our valued clients for many years, and as you know he had considerable holdings and estates.”
“Good Lord! I haven’t seen the old boy for ten or fifteen years. I didn’t even know where he was living …”
“Hm. Quite!” said Perrivale, as though he felt that such disrespect was hardly in keeping with the rather unctuous tone with which he was endeavouring to anoint the conversation. “Your great uncle has, in fact, left you a share of the estate which would be worth somewhere in the region of three or four thousand pounds; we shan’t be sure, of course, until the effects have been realised. It appears that it will be necessary to liquidise most of the holdings as there are other beneficiaries. Unless, of course, you would like to make an offer and keep the investments intact?” There was hope in the lawyer’s voice.
Adams pursed his lips thoughtfully for a moment.
“I’m not in position to,” he answered.
“Quite, quite.”
“Anyway, I prefer cash.”
“I see.” There was another short, almost offended silence.
“There are two other items which I have been instructed to pass to you,” said Perrivale, rather demurely.
“Yes? What are they?” Adams felt a strange, prickling curiosity at the nape of his neck, a feeling that amounted almost to anxiety. Was it just something in the lawyer’s tone, or was the feeling somehow curiously objective. Once, years ago, at a séance he had felt like that when the medium had told him she had a message from the Other Side.
“There is a document, how old—not being an antiquarian—I cannot say. Your uncle left it in his strong box with us. As far as I can remember—it is years since I looked at it—the document is some kind of a map. The—er—captions are not English.”
“Sounds interesting,” commented Adams.
“There is also a key,” went on Perrivale.
“Oh?”
It sounded inadequate, but Roger couldn’t think of any other answer.
“Perhaps you would be kind enough to call at our office as soon as it’s convenient and we’ll get matters finalised. We shall require your signature, of course, on the necessary papers.”
“Yes, of course,” echoed Roger.
“Good night to you, Mr. Adams.”
Roger hung up rather uncertainly and sat down in the chair to think, hunger forgotten. He had money! For the first time in his thirty odd years of terrestrial existence he had money. He’d been comfortable for years, for he had no extravagant tastes; apart from his books he had no expensive possessions at all. Reading can be satiated cheaply and pleasantly in a library. He drew a deep breath. Three or four thousand pounds! Perhaps the whole strange, unexpected conversation had been a dream? Three to four thousand pounds! And the dreams of Atlantis; the dreams of the great ocean deeps began to crystallise, to condense into a shimmering reality. The map and the key had a strange, romantic sound about them. Roger let his mind wonder delectably in the lush pastures of speculation, grazing first at this idea and then at that, nibbling the sweetness of conjectural flowers and hypothetical clovers …
He called the office early and explaining why he would not be in until later, took a taxi to the old world offices of Perrivale and his associates. The lawyer went well with his voice, thought Roger as the clerk ushered him into the presence. Perrivale sat behind a large mahogany desk of great age and high polish. He rose as Roger came in and extended a ring encrusted hand almost unctuously.
“How good of you to come so soon, Mr. Adams.”
Roger took the hand cordially, but the cordiality was on the surface. The real Adams disliked the Perrivale facade; he wondered whether the notes would smell of perfumed oil when they were handed over. It wouldn’t be notes, he told himself, it would be a cheque. People like Perrivale regarded currency as beneath their dignity. It was all done with cheques. Roger allowed himself to be partially swallowed by a vast black leather chair. Perrivale leaned forward and continued to smile.
“I would normally, of course, sympathise with you in your bereavement, Mr. Adams,” he said softly, ‘but I don’t believe you knew your great uncle at all well. I had handled his affairs for many years, but—” he shrugged, “—even I did not know him as well as I would have liked, a very secretive man, Mr. Bryan Adams, a very secretive man! He travelled extensively in his youth, you know, and amassed a fortune abroad; he lived on his investments the management of which he left to us and his brokerage firm. As long as his cheque arrived he was satisfied. We have been able to keep up the value of the holdings, and even to extend them a little. The other beneficiaries will be grateful I’m sure.”
“Oh, I’m grateful,” said Roger.
“Your great uncle was a considerable age when he died,” the lawyer sighed, as though it was somehow releva. . .
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