It dives deep. It chases. But it chases to save them from their seaward demise. The whale is gigantic. A sperm whale. First it catches the cat, then the mouse. It goes deep after the others. The submarine (Alvin?), the man (E.M.?), the woman (E.H.?).
The narrator is but an observer. The whale never swallows him but he watches it all.
Inside the whale’s mouth is just like in the cartoons–tall enough for a man to stand, and dimly (albeit mysteriously) lit. What is not like the cartoons is the stink and the oppressive humidity. But what else would you expect from the inside of a whale’s mouth?
The whale speaks to them–telepathically? It begs to be fixed. As if its own body were something that could be repaired. A biological-but-nuclear-powered submarine. A submarine that eats other submarines. It is turning to that man for help. But he admits exhaustion. He cannot. He would not know how. But the whale insists, urges them to try. And after some cajoling, the whale’s mouth’s occupants all agree to its strategy and (reluctantly) set out to repair it.