"Oh, yes. Actually, the problem with this particular enthusiasm of your father's isn't the diving helmet. I'd be quite willing to trust my life to that. It's the hose"—he swept his hand down the long table, indicating the canvas and wire contraption that lay sprawled across it in great coils—"and the pump and the rest of it that makes the project so close to suicide that I told His Majesty I refused to test it myself."
Ulrik winced. Given the risks Norddahl was usually prepared to take—for enough money—the fact that he considered this one almost suicidal made it suicidal indeed.
"Did you ask the American lieutenant?"
Baldur smiled. "Does a bear shit in the woods? As God is my witness, I would forgive the up-timers just for their delightful sayings alone, even if they hadn't brought such wonderful gadgets with them. Yes, Prince, of course I asked him. Pried him rather, over the many beers I bought the lad." The smile expanded a bit. "Which I charged to your father's account, you understand. Being, as it was, clearly a research expense."
The prince smiled back. He couldn't help it, even if one of the things about his father that aggravated him was the king of Denmark's ability to shed money like rainwater. But he was unable to get angry over Baldur's amoral cheeriness. Ulrik had come to realize that the Norwegian adventurer lied about very little, except his past. That was something of a relief, for a prince who'd been acquainted with courtiers all his life.
"And what did Eddie say?"
The smiled left Norddahl's face. "He said it was very dangerous—all of this—although he claimed that he couldn't provide me with many details beyond depicting what he called 'the bends.' "
Ulrik grunted skeptically. "I'm surprised you got anything out of him—or that he didn't regale you with the outlandish claims he tells my father."
"Oh, it's not hard. You simply have to know the trick of it."
The prince cocked an eyebrow. "Which is?"
"The lad's squeamish. You wouldn't think it, of a man who drove what the up-timers call a 'speedboat'—and isn't that an appropriate name!—into a Danish warship. But he is. Eddie Cantrell will lie through his teeth without hesitation, if he thinks he's deceiving his enemies." Norddahl shook his head. "Meaning no disrespect, Prince, but your father is far too gullible when his enthusiasms get the best of him."
Ulrik chuckled. "To say the least. Yes, I know. But you still haven't explained 'the trick.' "
The Norwegian shrugged. "Eddie's not a cold-blooded killer. If you make it clear that someone's life depends on what he tells you—depends directly; immediately; soon, not as vague later possibility—he simply can't bring himself to keep lying. He'll get vague, evasive. If you press him—beer helps—you can eventually pry some honest warnings from him. Even details, if he knows them."
"But he doesn't, I take it?"
Baldur shook his head. "No, not really. Not about this business, at least." The last, he said with another sweep of the hand at the contents of the workshop. "He came from a mountainous province, far inland. I think the only time he started learning anything about ships and the sea was after he came here through the Ring of Fire. So most of what he knows is what he calls 'book-learning,' and spotty at that."
"What are these 'bends' he warns about?"
"I'm not entirely sure, Prince. Eddie couldn't really explain it—and much of what he said didn't make a great deal of sense to me to begin with. But if he's right—I'm sure he's not lying here, he simply may be wrong himself—it seems that if a man goes deep enough into the water various parts of the air enter his actual blood. One of them is supposed to be particularly dangerous. Niter . . . something."
Ulrik had been feeling slightly dizzy ever since he arrived in Denmark and his ebullient giant of a father had immediately placed him in charge of what the king was pleased to call "our secret navy projects." The dizziness increased slightly, as he tried to wrack his brain to pull up what he'd managed to learn in hasty perusals of up-time texts.
"Yes, I remember. Nitrogen, they call it. The up-timers claim that air"—the hand-wave the prince now made took in everything about them—"is not really 'air' at all, but a mixture of several airs. What they call gases. Oxygen is the one we actually use to breathe. Most of it is nitrogen. Four parts in five, if I remember correctly."
He frowned. "But they also claim that nitrogen is harmless. 'Inert,' is the word they use."
"Most of the time, maybe. But Eddie insists it's dangerous underwater. At least, if you go far enough down. He says what happens is that the—'gas,' you call it?—saturates the blood. Then, when a man rises back to the surface—if he rises too quickly, that is—the gas boils back out of his blood. That's what they call 'the bends.' Does terrible things, apparently, especially to the joints. It can even kill you."