“Nurse Ames,” she said at last, “I expect an explanation.”
Before Eleanor could summon a single word to her parched lips, Rutherford stepped forward, hand extended, and introduced himself as a captain in the 17th Lancers. “My friend here,” he said, gesturing toward Sinclair, “was injured in the act of defending a woman's honor.”
Frenchie put in, “Quite nearby.”
“And we required immediate assistance. Your Miss Ames has rendered it, and in a thoroughly professional manner.”
“That is for me to decide,” Miss Nightingale said, frostily. “And were you gentlemen unaware that this is an institution devoted solely to the care of gentlewomen?”
Rutherford looked over at Frenchie and then Sinclair, as if unsure how to answer that one.
“We were,” Sinclair said, managing to step down onto the floor. “But as my regiment leaves for the east in the morning, we had no time to seek out an alternative.”
Rutherford and Frenchie appeared happy with that improvisation.
And even Miss Nightingale seemed mollified, somewhat. She swept into the alcove, and closely examined the newly stitched wound.
Eleanor was quivering in fear, but when she glanced at Sinclair, he winked at her.
“And are you happy with the result of this… unorthodox procedure?” she said to Sinclair.
“I am.”
She straightened up, and without looking yet at Eleanor, said, “As am I.” She then turned toward Eleanor, and said, “It appears to have been expertly done.”
Eleanor took her first full breath in minutes.
“But we cannot have this sort of thing here. The reputation and public standing of this hospital is in constant review. I will require a full account, in writing, by eight o'clock in the morning, Nurse.”
Eleanor bowed her head in assent.
“And if you gentlemen have now received the care you required, I will have to ask you to leave.”
Rutherford and Frenchie made quick to fetch their cigar butts, and then, with Sinclair slung between them, made their way out into the hall. Miss Nightingale held the front door open for them, with Eleanor hanging back behind. But as they stopped at the bottom of the stairs, Miss Nightingale stepped forward, her long skirts swaying, and said, “Be careful, young men, and come back safe.”
From her limited vantage point, Eleanor could only see Lieutenant Copley, his blond hair shining beneath the streetlamp, his scarlet jacket draped around his shoulders. But he was smiling up at her. She suddenly felt a twinge of concern-quite unexpected, and surprising in its intensity-at the thought of his imminent departure for the battlefront.
CHAPTER TWELVE
December 6, 3 p.m.
While anyone in his right mind would have despaired at the very sight of the marine biology lab at Point Adelie, Darryl Hirsch was beside himself with joy. The floor was a concrete slab, the walls were prefab, triple- insulated plastic, the ceiling was low, and the whole place had the musty, briny smell of old fish and spilled chemicals.
But it was his alone, and he had no one looking over his shoulder as he conducted whatever experiments and studies he chose. For once, he didn't have that highly paid and traitorous flack, Dr. Edgar Montgomery, trying to poke holes in his research and find reasons- as he had successfully done more than once-to have the funding curtailed. This lab, with its bubbling tanks and hissing air hoses, was Darryl's own private fiefdom.
And as far as the necessary equipment went, the National Science Foundation had outfitted the lab with pretty much everything he needed, from microscopes, petri dishes, and pipettes, to respirometers and plasma centrifuges. The large round tank in the center of the room, open at the top, was called the aquarium; it was four feet deep, wide enough to float a rowboat in, and divided like a pie into three compartments. The division was critical since many aquatic specimens had an unfortunate tendency to eat each other. At the moment, the tank held some enormous cod, and someone had handprinted a sign that read: “For Cod's sake, pet me!” The sign hung from the tank, but Darryl knew what a dumb, and dangerous, prank that was. Cod could be very aggressive fish, rising up and snapping at anything from a camera to a human hand. He removed the sign and tossed it in the waste barrel.
Against two walls, there were long metal dissecting tables, and above them rows of shelves which held the smaller tanks, with pale purple lights and strange creatures-sea spiders, urchins, anemones, scale worms-crawling around inside, or suctioning themselves, like the starfish, to the glass.
Darryl spent the better part of the first week just inventorying everything he had, organizing the lab, reviewing his files, orchestrating his plan of attack. What he wanted to do, as soon as possible, was to dive. He wanted to capture his own specimens-most notably the icefishes of the Channichthyidae family-and bring them to the surface alive; that was often the hardest part, as deep-sea creatures who lived under such frigid conditions were extremely sensitive to changes in pressure, temperature, and even light. He had already alerted Murphy O'Connor to his needs, and the chief had assured him that everything from the ice auger to the dive hut would be up and running, just so long as he filled out all the necessary NSF paperwork in advance. The man was a bit rough around the edges, and a stickler for the rules and regulations, but Darryl did feel he'd be someone he could work with.
On a table by the door Darryl had found a Bose one-piece audio system, nicer than anything he had at home, and an eclectic collection of CDs. He did not know whom to thank-the NSF? some previous marine biologist? — but he was grateful, nonetheless. Just then he had on Bach's E major Partita-Bach and Mozart were the best to help concentrate the mind, he had long since determined- and perhaps that was why he didn't hear the knocking on the door. He did feel the blast of cold air, though, and when he looked up from the slide he was preparing, he saw Michael drawing back his fur-lined hood, then zipping open his parka. A camera, on a heavy cord, swung from his neck.
“What were you shooting?”
“Lawson and I went out to the old Norwegian whaling station. I thought I'd get some good atmospheric shots.”
“And did you?” Darryl asked, laying the paper-thin slice of algae across the slide, then slipping it under the microscope's lens.
“Not really. Too much atmosphere this morning. The light is bouncing around off the fog, and it's impossible to get a focus on anything.”
“Let me know when you're planning to go out there again. I want to come.”
Michael laughed. “Yeah, sure you do.” He lifted his chin at the fish tanks and specimen jars. “This is your idea of paradise. I'll never get you out of here.”
Darryl raised his shoulders, as if to concede the point, before adding, “Not completely true. Weather permitting”-which is something that preceded virtually every statement in the Antarctic-”I'll be stepping outside tomorrow morning.”
Michael sat back on a lab stool and brushed some snow off his sleeve. “Really? Where to?”
“Davy Jones's locker,” Darryl said with a dramatic flourish.
“You're diving?”
“I assume so,” Darryl said. “I didn't see any submersibles lying around, did you?”
“In search of what?”
That was a big question, and Darryl didn't have an easy answer. It was what he had come all that way to investigate. “There are about fifteen kinds of Antarctic fish,” he said, deliberately skipping the Latinate names, “that can survive in conditions that no other species can. They can live in freezing waters, in total darkness for four months at a time. They have no scales, and they have no hemoglobin.”
“So in other words their blood is-?”
“Colorless. Exactly. And even their gills are a pale translucent white. What's more, they carry a kind of
