TITANIC DEBRIS FIELD, ATLANTIC OCEAN.
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 2012. 12:12 P.M.
“Over there.”
A man in a stylish red jacket pointed to the right side of the convex window in the MIR deep-sea submersible as it hovered over the ocean floor, two and a half miles below the surface.
“Those boots,” the Man in Red said, pointing to a half-buried pair at the edge of the sub’s halogen lights. “Right there. I need those. Grab them for me.”
“We need to be on our way,” said the sub pilot. “My next group is waiting topside.”
For two hours and twelve minutes, the submersible had passed alongside the forlorn, broken corpse of the Titanic and over its massive debris field, and that was exactly twelve minutes longer than had been paid for.
“This will be the last thing. Besides,” the Man in Red protested, “this is important historical work.”
A third man wearing a blue fleece shifted uncomfortably, coughed, and addressed the Man in Red. “I’ll say it again: when I agreed to share this sub with you, I didn’t expect to join a salvage mission. There’s no scientific value in plundering Titanic for china and old bottles of champagne. This is show business, what you’re doing.”
“Just the boots, please,” insisted the Man in Red to the sub pilot.
The pilot sighed and guided the sub to the right, extending the submersible’s arm as he went.
“Titanic should be studied, not disturbed,” grumbled the Man in Blue.
“No,” the Man in Red argued. “History should be shared with the living.”
The sub glided to a halt in front of the boots, and the pilot manipulated the crane arm. The deft metal fingers closed on a heel and pulled it from the silt: it was a woman’s boot, tall, made to lace up over the calf, though the laces were long gone.
The Man in Blue felt his stomach turn. Even though he knew better, he half-expected to see the remains of a leg inside. But as the shoe was raised, only sand emptied out in a billowing cloud. “Those boots you’re taking,” the Man in Blue said. “They belonged to a real woman, you know. A real flesh-and-blood human being who died tragically. How is this any different than digging up a grave?”
“Whoever died in those boots is long gone.” The Man in Red’s voice was even, indifferent. “The boots are artifacts now. People can learn from them.”
“Couldn’t you photograph or videotape these artifacts in their natural environment?”
“I could, but what’s more powerful than holding the past in your hand?” The Man in Red smirked: in fact, the boots were worth their weight in gold, perhaps more than all the cutlery and dinnerware he’d gathered so far. The boots conjured the lady who once wore them, and that’s what drew exhibit audiences.
“This is stealing, plain and simple. You’re a profiteer. You and your whole traveling road show. I’m here to expand scientific knowledge by studying new forms of life.”
“You mean those rusticles, or whatever you call them? That’s life, I suppose.” The Man in Red waved his hand. “And you’ll no doubt profit from your discoveries, too, as much as you can. But is there nothing to learn from history? This recovery of artifacts is called ‘historical preservation.’ The federal courts agree, in case you’d care to take it up with them.”
For the second time, the crane arm disappeared from sight beneath the window, inserting the mate of the first boot into a holding compartment in the belly of the submersible.
“Done,” the sub pilot grunted. “Now we surface.”
“Wait!” exclaimed the Man in Red.
“We’re finished!” the sub pilot growled back. “You’ve got your boots.”
“No,” the Man in Red commanded. He pointed to a metallic tube just beyond where the boots had lain. The cylinder, half-buried and sticking up at an angle, glinted in the halogen lamp’s bright light. It was odd, unusual; to his practiced eyes, the Man in Red could tell this wasn’t some casual everyday item. The tube held, or once held, something important—and good mysteries sold even more tickets. “We’re not leaving without that. I’ll pay another ten thousand.”
The pilot hesitated. His daughter, a senior in high school, was starting college that fall. “Fifteen.”
“Done. I’ll wire the money after we surface.”
“This is wrong!” exclaimed the Man in Blue, as the brooding presence of the ghostly ship loomed. “You don’t even know what that is!”
Neither the sub pilot nor the Man in Red responded. The crane arm extended and pinched the tube successfully between its stiff, gray fingers, then retracted slowly, drawing the tube from its century-old resting place. Only once his prize was aboard did the Man in Red turn to speak.
“Solving mysteries like this tube is how we learn from the past. It could be anything. The deed to an old English estate. A treasure map. Perhaps only a giant cigar. It doesn’t really matter. Each item is a window into another time. It’s how we keep the dead alive.”