the ship, down into twisting and turning dark corridors. He finally arrived at a section of the ship that must have been living quarters. There was little damage here. He turned slowly around, flashing his torch in all directions; no sign of Genaro. He turned off the light and stood in darkness. Light filtered through from a partly open door of a large cabin, rays from Genero's shoulder lamp.

Ben pushed his way up to the door and shoved on it; it didn't budge. He pushed hard, and slowly it gave and he plowed into the room,

Something happens to thought beneath the sea under great pressure. It flits about like a bird; evading the mind. Under water a man does things cautiously, slowly, and stumblingly; the mind blunders, falters and sometimes goes momentarily blank.

Through a mental haze Ben stared at the scene before him. He struggled to collect his thoughts, but the effort to think was too burdensome. He stopped trying; and merely accepted what he

saw.

He had stumbled into a large cabin which had been a sleeping room for a captain of this galleon in the seventeenth century. Nothing was disturbed. The huge bed with its dark curtains embroidered with figures on a silver background, the massive chests carved with arabesques and flowers; even the heavily ornamented mirrors were in

place. In the middle of the room about ten feet from Ben, lay Genaro at the feet of the captain.

Within Ben's mind was a comingling of absurdity, surprise and bewilderment; a notion of being captured by the incredible. Then his thoughts returned with a rush and a kind of queerness came over him. But it was a man! He was the handsomest figure Ben had ever seen with exquisite features, straight in the classical manner, and the beautiful brows and dark, enormous eyes. His hair was dark black and shown in the light with curiously blue reflections. His shirt had been ripped from his body. Currents played on his features causing expressions of many moods, and his long, slender body floated in an attitude of listless and indolent grace.

Ben didn't know how long he stood there. It took a long time for his brain to begin functioning again. He stirred as if from a stupor to push his way up to Genaro and the Spanish captain. To all appearances, the captain was alive; his body perfectly preserved for centuries by the tremendous pressure of the deep. At his feet lay Genaro's crumpled form. In his hands he still held the knife with which he had cut through his air hose and ripped his diving dress. Genaro's passion had been hopeless from the beginning, could never have been fulfilled; and it had killed him.

In the blue-green light of Ben's lamp, the smile of the Spanish captain seemed suddenly hideous.

IN OUR JANUARY ISSUE...

Announcement will be made of winners

of our Short Story Contest for 1955.

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