Last Gasp

him as a scientist. And maybe, just maybe, she thought, he couldn't have been both devoted father and dedicated scientist.

She tossed her sun-streaked head in mocking self-disdain. 'I always insist on my rights. I'm good at that.'

'I'm glad that you are.'

'Oh, sure.'

'Because you insisted on mine, too,' Theo reminded her with a smile.

The waiter placed avocado salad in front of Cheryl. Another waiter poured lentil soup into Theo's bowl.

'I must be dumb or something,' Cheryl said, 'but I still don't understand. I mean, why come all this way and then give in without a fight? Without even a protest?'

Theo picked up his spoon and paused, staring down at the steaming soup. He said, 'When you've worked for a long time on something and devoted all your energy to it, you suddenly find that you've no energy left. It's been used up. My work is important to me, of course it is, but after so long I find that I'm--' He broke off, searching for the word.

'Tired?'

'Yes.' Theo nodded slowly. 'Disillusioned. People won't listen, they don't want to listen. I tried in Washington, but it was no good, so I came here, thinking that these people would be different, more open, more receptive. But it seems I was wrong.' He dipped into his soup. 'People don't wish to face the truth. They'd rather not see, not listen.' He drank and dabbed his lips. 'It's so much easier and more comfortable that way.'

'The truth about what?'

'About our planet,' Theo said, raising his eyes to look at her.

'Is that what you came here to tell them?'

Her tone of bewildered skepticism made him realize the enormity of the task that faced him. If his own daughter thought him deranged, what chance did he have of persuading anyone else? Parris Winthrop must have harbored similar suspicions, Theo realized. The old man's lived alone too long; his mind's become unhinged by solitude.

He told Cheryl of the conclusions he had been driven to, quoting whole passages from the paper he had been forbidden to deliver, and after coffee had been served she said, 'If you have the data and can prove what you say is true, why won't they listen? Surely they must listen.'

'It's a matter of interpretation,' Theo explained. 'It's quite possible to accept the figures as genuine and yet to disagree with the predicted outcome. The worldwide decline in phytoplankton is not in dispute-- but what that might mean in terms of oxygen depletion is open to debate.'

'Then you could be wrong?'

'It is always possible to be wrong,' Theo answered gravely.

'But the least they could do is listen. What have they to lose?' It was the question of a naive schoolgirl and Cheryl winced at the tone of righteous indignation in her voice. She was regressing into the role of Daddy's little girl, as if eager to make up for lost time and have a belated stab at the part.

'My predictions will hardly be popular with the scientific community, you must know that,' Theo said. 'Scientists by nature are conservative creatures. They don't like change, and anyone who predicts change, especially of this magnitude, will not be welcomed with open arms.' He looked down at his powerful hands, the palms ridged with callouses; not the hands of a scientist. 'I was stupid to expect otherwise. I've been away too long.'

'But what if you're right? People must be told. They have to be forced to listen.'

'How?'

She shook her head, at a loss. 'I don't know--but there has to be a way.'

There was a hard core of determination there that secretly amazed him. He had never thought of Cheryl as being a person in her own right: She was his and Hannah's daughter, not a separate individual at all. Now he saw her anew--or rather, for the first time--as an intelligent young woman of strength and character. Her energy, he saw, unlike his, hadn't been drained, but was full to the brim. She had enough for both of them.

Cheryl had been distracted by someone across the restaurant. She touched Theo's arm, who leaned back in his chair, a slow smile lighting up his face. The man came over to their table and as she watched the reunion a childhood memory stirred within her. She remembered meeting the Russian and his wife, whom she recalled as rather a finicky little woman, though kindly and fond of children, as many childless middle-aged women are.

'You will not know me,' Boris Stanovnik said in his deep Russian voice, taking her hand. 'You were a little child, with golden hair and, er --what are they called?' He tapped his cheeks and nose.

'Freckles,' Cheryl smiled. 'I still have them in summer, but not the golden hair unfortunately. Yes, I do remember you. I was tiny and you were a giant,' she said, at her most artful.

Boris chuckled. 'And children never forget giants, eh?'

Cheryl shook her head, smiling, liking this man at once. He was how she imagined a fairy-tale Russian peasant to be, honest as the day, lacking all sophistry and guile. It pleased her immensely that her father had found a friendly soul in a desert of indifference.

It was still quite early, a few minutes after nine-thirty, and she could see that Theo was in the mood to chat for hours yet. Feeling tired, and happy to let them talk, she rose and excused herself, at which the Russian lumbered to his feet and gallantly kissed her hand. She was charmed, knowing the gesture to be one of genuine courtesy and not mere flashy display.

On her way to the elevator, thinking, Oh, Gordon, what a helluva lot you've got to learn! she passed the board in the lobby and words in colored plexiglass seemed to spring out at her . . . Global . . . Toxic . . . Ozone . . . Hazards . . . Carbon Dioxide . . . Problem . . . Waste . . .

It was all there, screaming to be heard. After all, the people at the conference were the concerned ones, the responsible ones. They would have listened, she was convinced, if only Theo had been given the chance to speak. Why had that damned committee turned him down? It baffled her and also made her feel uneasy. Was there a political slant to it? Were they frightened that what Theo had to say was too alarmist? Or was she being too dramatic herself, imagining boogeymen where none existed? Maybe the truth was that the committee's attitude was typified by the official with his round shoulders and meek eyes and closed mind.

As the doors slid open and she stepped inside, Cheryl was struck by a vision of the stinking red algae bloom churning up from under the stern of the Melville.

That, surely to God, was proof that what her father feared was fact and not fantasy: a glimpse of the coming horror he had seen in his mind's eye.

The doors were halfway closed when a man slipped through. He was tall, broad-shouldered, burned dark by tropical sun, and wearing a white suit. Preoccupied, Cheryl didn't think it odd when he didn't inquire which floor she wanted, but pressed the one button that happened to be her floor, too.

'I don't fancy yours,' Nick said.

'I don't fancy either one.'

'Come on, Gav, don't be like that. The one with the big bumpers hasn't taken her eyes off you all night. The little redhead will suit me fine. How about it?'

Chase drained the last few drops of pilsner beer, grimaced--no wonder they drank more wine than beer on the Continent--and set the glass down. He wiped his mouth and said, 'Not tonight, Josephine. But go right ahead. You can take your pick. Only please don't come crashing in at two in the morning, will you?'

'Great!' Nick said without enthusiasm. He scratched his beard viciously. 'If I'd known you were the Virgin Mary I'd have asked Lord Longford to come instead, Thanks a bunch.'

'See you at breakfast,' Chase said, sliding down from the barstool.

'You're not really going?'

'Looks like it.' At the foliage-shrouded entrance to the bar he turned and saw Nick semaphoring with his eyebrows to the two young girls, one of whom, he had to admit, was rather attractive. The one with the big bumpers, in fact. As he went out he saw her gazing after him, and for just one instant regretted his premature departure. No, he couldn't. Not that he was morally whiter than white, not that at all. It was the thought that Angie herself might be having an affair (harmless flirtation?) that stopped him cold. The worm of suspicion had burrowed deep inside him and he couldn't kill the little bastard. It tainted everything, rotted the flesh of the apple.

He walked across the lobby, belching warm beer fumes, and just made it to the elevator as the doors were