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your permission, Madam President, that we return to the bar—”
    And at that moment the submarine shuddered, a mile-long vessel ringing like a gong.

7
    If Falcon had ever doubted that the slim, modest woman in the pale lilac suit really was the President of a united world, the case was proven now. Seconds after that sinister shiver—as red alarm lights flashed, distant sirens wailed, and Captain Embleton called instructions from the stage beside a frowning Matt Springer—it seemed to Falcon that a good proportion of the audience in the Sea Lounge had already swarmed around the President like expensively suited, heavily armed bees. In a moment the swarm had escorted her from the room.
    Falcon, meanwhile, turned and rolled at top speed out of the Sea Lounge. Already people were on their feet, pushing their way out of the room—but even now they cowered back from Falcon, a seven-foot-tall pillar of gold.
    Hope Dhoni was still where he and Webster had left her, in the Obser­vation Lounge, her glass of iced tea half-drunk on the table where she sat. And she was staring at a white form that clung to the huge observation window.
    It was a sea sprite, clamped to the glass, Falcon recognised, with a grim sense of foreboding fulfilled. “I knew it. Damn it.”
    Webster came hurrying after Falcon. “At least it’s quiet in here.What with the crew shouting and the alarms and the lights flashing ­everywhere—”
    â€œI presume there are enough lifeboats for everybody.”
    â€œOf course, Commander Falcon,” said Captain Embleton, who came stalking into the room, trailed by Matt Springer and a gaggle of her senior officers. “This isn’t the bloody Titanic . We’ve already got the President away.”
    Webster whistled. “That’s quick.”
    â€œA condition of her being brought aboard. I dare say whoever plotted this thing wasn’t aware of that. But,” she said more softly, “the problem is time—time enough to get everybody off before the hull implodes.”
    The officers were pointing and declaiming, checking minisecs, running through the evacuation plan in high, calm voices. Bizarrely, the little robot Conseil began to circulate among the sudden crowd, as if seeking a role in the sudden crisis. “May I serve you?” It was universally ignored.
    Embleton turned from one of the officers to eye Webster. “Adminis­trator, given your own seniority—”
    â€œI’m staying right here,” Webster snapped.
    â€œIdiot,” murmured Falcon.
    â€œTakes one to know one—I don’t notice you baling out. Anyhow, the ship might yet be saved, right?”
    Falcon, who had gyroscopes whirring in the place his stomach should have been, wasn’t so sure. “Not if the ship’s list continues to worsen.”
    Matt Springer looked at him with respect. “Of course you can feel it. So can I, I think.”
    Dhoni looked up at Falcon in alarm. “Oh, Howard—”
    â€œI know.” He forced a smile. “Another great vessel in mortal peril, and here I am in the middle of it. Not again . . . ”
    â€œSoon enough everybody will feel the list,” Embleton said grimly, glancing at a minisec held by one of her officers. “We’ve suffered multiple fusion micro-explosions, all around the perimeter of the hull.”
    â€œThey blew the ballast tanks,” Falcon said.
    â€œExactly.”
    Hope Dhoni stood, looking bewildered. “Who did this? And why?”
    â€œWe don’t know yet.” Captain Embleton broke away from her officers to stalk to the window. “But we know how.”
    â€œWith the sea sprites,” Falcon said. “Like the one stuck to the window.”
    More crew came into the lounge now, carrying technical gear that they fixed to the window, studying the sprite.
    Embleton said, “It happened only minutes ago. Suddenly the sprites