low its own
solution, even if the other three contradicted it. Naturally--it would
_have_ to follow its own solution, if there was no indication of
malfunction. But could a human being make such a decision? Could a man
decide, "I am right, and everyone else is wrong?"

_No evidence of malfunction_, he thought. _I am not a coward. Neither am
I insane._

His heart cried: "I am disgusted with this purposeless war. I shall quit
fighting it."

He sighed deeply, then arose. There was nothing else to do. The atomic
engines could go six months without refueling. There were enough
undersea rations to last nearly that long.

He switched on the radio again, goosed the engines to full speed, and
after a moment's thought, swung around on a northeasterly heading. His
first impulse had been to head south, aiming for Yucatan, or the
Guianas--but that impulse would also be the first to strike his pursuers
who were sure to come.

A new voice was growling on the radio, and he recognized it as Captain
Barkley, his usually jovial, slightly cynical commanding officer.
"Listen, Mitch--if you can hear me, better answer. What's wrong with you
anyhow? I can't hold off much longer. If you don't reply, I'll have to
hunt you down. You're ordered to proceed immediately to the nearest
base. Over."

Mitch wanted to answer, wanted to argue and fume and curse, hoping that
he could explain his behaviour to his own satisfaction. But they might
not be certain of his exact location, and if he used the radio,
half-a-dozen direction-finders would swing around to aim along his
signal, and Barkley would plot the half-a-dozen lines on the map in his
office before speaking crisply into his telephone: _all right, boys--get
him! 29 deg. 10' North, 79 deg. 50' West. Use a P-charge if you can't spot him
by radar or sonar._

Mitch left the controls in the hands of the computer and went up to
stand in the conning tower with the churning spray washing his face.
Surfaced, the sub could make sixty knots, and he meant to stay surfaced
until there were hints of pursuit.

* * * * *

A three-quarter moon was rising in gloomy orange majesty out of the
quiet sea. It made a river of syrupy light across the water to the east,
and it heightened his sense of unreality, his feeling of detachment from
danger.

Is it always like this, he wondered? Can a man toss aside his society so
easily, become a traitor with so little logical reason? A