Most species of diatoms were widely distributed throughout the world, and were probably, Detrick had said, the most abundant and adaptable creatures in the oceans, if not on earth.
Chase wrote up his notes, frequently going back to the eyepiece to check a detail, and made rough sketches of the various subclasses to complement his descriptions. He found the ordered routine of lab work deeply satisfying. The slow, painstaking accumulation of observed data, the classifying and cross-referencing, the fragmentary picture slowly emerging--though after four months of steady work he was still a long way away from reaching any kind of conclusion. He shook his head in mute wonder at the amount of work Detrick must have put in to write his monumental study, surely a lifetime's dedication. Did he have that kind of perseverance? He doubted it; for instance, that specimen of brine he'd examined yesterday. He'd spent damn near three hours distilling it and setting up the test, and he might have been looking at tap water. The sample had obviously been spoiled, contaminated somewhere between collection and the lab. It had come from his last dive, he recalled, when Nick was handling the net. Maybe that explained why it had been low on what one would have normally expected to find in the ocean under the Antarctic Ice Shelf--low on phytoplankton, diatoms, and
Anyway, he'd written off the sample as a botched job and thrown the whole bloody lot down the sink. So much for the objective, dispassionate scientist. No, he thought wryly, a 378-page treatise on marine biology wouldn't be appearing under the name of Dr. Gavin Chase.
Still, he should have logged it. Supposing it
Chase stretched and yawned and glanced at his watch: twenty past four. This being Friday he didn't have any qualms of conscience about packing up early. George Pelham, his research colleague, had left at three. Off on another weekend hike, Chase supposed. God, that guy must walk ten thousand miles a year. There probably wasn't a square inch of the British Isles he hadn't tramped over in his size-ten boots.
It took him only a few minutes to clear away and return the specimen jars to the freezer.
He hung up his white coat and shrugged into his jacket. Then in the mirror next to the wall telephone, he caught sight of his bulging shirt-front. Soft living was catching up to him, that and English beer. He must have put ten pounds on since he got back. He didn't mind not winning the Nobel, but being overweight was just too much. Bike or pool? He didn't relish the idea of cycling now that the damp autumn nights were here, so it was down to the baths and twenty-five lengths of slow crawl. Sunday morning, definitely.
He walked up the three flights of bleak concrete stairways to the flat and let himself in, feeling smugly pleased. He was only slightly out of breath.
Normally Angie didn't finish at the studio till six-thirty, and then went for a drink or two--usually three--with her colleagues from the newsroom, but today she was sitting in an armchair with her feet propped up, clasping a large gin and tonic.
'Like to go to a party, darling?'
'When?' Chase said as if inquiring about the date of his execution.
'Tonight.'
'Where?'
'Archie's. Somebody's leaving do and Archie kindly offered. You were specifically invited, nay, commanded to attend. I said yes for both of us.'
Chase draped his jacket over a chair, taking his time and doing it carefully to show he wasn't annoyed, which he was. He didn't like
Archie Grieve, Angie's boss, and liked even less her accepting the invitation before asking him. Archie Grieve was one of the breed of tough young Scottish journalists who had infiltrated the media south of the border. They all had pedigrees as spot-welders in the Clydeside shipyards or as Labour party activists, though to judge by Archie, whom Chase had met only once and had nothing in common with, he'd been no nearer to an oxyacetylene torch than Chase had.
For the sake of peace and harmony, however, and because it wasn't fair to curtail Angie's social life because of his personal prejudices, he shrugged and nodded and even managed a smile. But she had some gall. What if he'd accepted an invitation without consulting her? Ah-ha! Different story.
'It isn't a dinner party, I hope?' Chase said, sitting down on the couch and brushing black strands of hair from his eyes.
'No, darling.' Angie gave him her sweetest smile, all dimples, with a slightly muzzy look in her large gray eyes. That was her second large one, he'd bet. 'Just a few friends and a buffet and drinkies.'
'Of course, drinkies. Where would your lot be without drinkies? I suppose they'll all be your media chums in T-shirts, earrings, and Adidas training shoes.'
Angie pouted. 'You speak of them as if they weren't people. They do a job, you know, just like you. I think you're jealous.'
'Yes, I'm green with it. Or is that envy?'
'They'd like to meet you. I'm sure they'd be fascinated to hear what it's like in the Antarctic. It's not everyone who's had--'
'They know about that?'
'Of course.' Angie took a deep swallow, wiped the residue from her lips, and licked her fingertips. 'I didn't think I was giving away a state secret.'
Chase groaned. It was going to be worse than he feared. A lot of frightfully interesting questions about penguins and polar bears and was it true that Eskimos went around grinning with their gums?
They ate a cheese-and-mushroom omelet in the small kitchen and watched Angie's news program on the portable TV. She didn't appear on screen, but they heard her cultured tones in voice-over talking about proposed mortgage relief for one-parent families. It seemed to Chase that he'd seen that same story at least twenty times before--or perhaps it was simply that all such stories sounded exactly the same.
Angie firmly believed that television had a 'morally responsible role' to play in exposing social injustice, for the most part by pointing the finger at the faceless bureaucrats in local government, who were invariably, rightly or wrongly, cast as the villains of the piece. Chase's attitude was more sanguine. He couldn't whip up enthusiasm for the socially deprived, even though he readily acknowledged that they probably got a raw deal.
'If you don't want to go, then we won't,' Angie said, noticing his pensive expression. 'I just thought you might like to get out and meet some people. You work all day in the lab, come home, and collapse in a chair.'
'I'm an unsocial slob,' Chase agreed, collecting the plates and stacking them in the sink. 'Sure, let's go. Just as long as they don't expect me to give a lantern slide lecture on the mating habits of the walrus.'
'What does the walrus do that's so different?'
Chase thrust out his jaw. 'Very difficult to describe. But I could demonstrate if you like.'
Angie slapped his wrist. 'Not on a full stomach, darling.'
He made a grab for her and she ran off, squealing.
Three months ago they would have made love without a second bidding, he thought, standing at the sink and mechanically washing up, full stomach or not. In the first month he couldn't remember doing much else. He was hanging up the dish cloth when the phone rang. Angie's voice floated through the hiss of water in the shower as he took the call in the corner alcove at one end of the L-shaped livingroom. 'I heard it,' he yelled back, picking up the phone.
'Hello, Gav, how are you?'
He recognized the voice; and only one person called him Gav.
'Hello, Nick. How's the Lebanese Red?'
Nick chuckled. 'Too bloody expensive. I'm thinking of trying glue-sniffing. What are you up to these days?'
'The same,' Chase replied, flopping down crossways in an armchair. 'Developing a squint from staring down a microscope all day. What's happening with you?'
'That's what I'm calling you about. How do you fancy a holiday, absolutely free, all expenses paid?'
'You've gone into the travel business?'
'There's a conference in Geneva in two weeks time, the ninth onward for four days. The UN is sponsoring delegates from British universities and I've put my name down, but there are still a few places open. How about it?
