Pop unbuckled his safety belt, climbed gingerly out of his hammock,
moved to the port, slid back its lock-plate. Bobby said, "Can you see
anything, Pop? Can you?" And Mom, who could read Pop's expressions like
a book, said, "What is it, Rob?"
Pop stroked his chin. He said, "Well, we've landed safely, Richard. But
I'm afraid we've--er--selected a wet landing field. We seem to be under
water!"
His hazard was verified immediately. Indisputably. For from the crack
beneath the door leading from the control turret to the prow-chambers
of the ship, came a dark trickle that spread and puddled and stained
and gurgled. Water!