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Gunn moved to the bow and lay down on the rubber sheathed floor. He stared out of one of the four forward viewports together with Merker and Spencer. They all saw the object almost immediately. It was as Munk had described it simply an inverted bell-shaped funnel about five inches in diameter, its tip protruding from the bottom sediment. Surprisingly, its condition was good. The exterior surface of the metal was tarnished, to be sure, but it appeared to be sound and solid, with no indication of flaking or heavy rust layers.
"Holding steady," Giordino said, "but I can't guarantee for how long."
Without turning from the viewport, Gunn motioned to Woodson, who was bent over a pair of cameras, zooming their lenses toward the object on the sea floor. "Omar?"
"Focused and shooting."
Merker twisted around and looked at Gunn. "Let's make a grab for it."
Gunn remained silent, his nose almost touching the port. He seemed lost in concentration.
Merker's eyes narrowed questioningly. "What about it, Rudi? I say let's grab it."
The words finally penetrated Gunn's thoughts. "Yes, yes, by all means," he mumbled vaguely.
Merker unhooked a metal box that was attached to the forward bulkhead by a five-foot cable and positioned himself at the center viewport. The box contained a series of toggle switches that surrounded a small circular knob. It was the control unit for the manipulator, a four-hundred-pound mechanical arm that hung grotesquely from the lower bow of the Sappho I.
Merker pushed a switch that activated the arm. Then he deftly moved his fingers over the controls as the mechanism hummed and the arm extended to its full seven-foot reach. It was eight inches shy of the funnel in the sediment outside.
"I need another foot," Merker said.
"Get ready," Giordino replied. "The forward movement may break my position."
The funnel seemed to pass with agonizing slowness under the manipulator's stainless-steel claw. Merker gently eased the pincers over the lip of the funnel, and then he pressed another switch and they closed, but his timing was off; the current clutched the submersible and began swinging it broadside. The claw missed by no more than an inch and its pincers came together empty.
"She's breaking to port," Giordino yelled, "I can't hold her."
Quickly, Merker's fingers danced over the control box. He would have to try for a second grab on the fly. If he missed again, it would be next to impossible to relocate the funnel under the limited visibility. Sweat began erupting on his brow, and his hands grew tense.
He bent the arm against its stop and turned the claw six degrees to starboard, compensating for the opposite swing of the Sappho. He flipped the switch again and the claw dropped, and the pincers closed in almost the same motion. The lip of the funnel rested between them.
Merker had it.
Now he eased the arm upward, gradually easing the funnel from its resting place in the sediment. The sweat was rolling into his eyes now, but he kept them open. There could be no hesitating one mistake and the object would be lost on the sea floor forever. Then the slimy ooze relinquished its hold and the funnel came free and rose up toward the viewports.
"My God!" Woodson whispered. "That's no funnel."
"It looks like a horn," Merker said.
Gunn shook his head. "It's a cornet."
"How can you be sure?" Giordino had left the pilot's console and was peering over Gunn's shoulder through the port.
"I played one in my high-school band."
The others recognized it now, too. They could readily make out the flaring mouth of the bell and behind it, the curved tubes leading to the valves and mouthpiece.
"Judging from the look of it," Merker said, "I'd say it was brass."
"That's why Munk's magnetometer barely picked it up on the graph," Giordino added. "The mouthpiece and the valve pistons are the only parts that contain iron."
"Ah wonder how long it's been down here?" Drummer asked no one in particular.
"It'd be more intriguing to know where it came from," said Merker.
"Obviously thrown overboard from a passing ship," Giordino said carelessly. "Probably by some kid who hated music lessons."
"Maybe its owner is somewhere down here, too." Merker spoke without looking up.
