by Trevor Hoyle
What the hell was going on? A protest?
The protesters were an unlikely pair—a stocky, tanned, white-haired man and a young girl dressed like a student in a cheesecloth shirt and faded denims. It was the girl who was doing all the talking, while the man was standing there holding a dilapidated briefcase under his arm, his expression calm, resigned, a little weary, Chase thought.
Several officials had closed ranks while others were scurrying around gesticulating to one another. The girl, attractive and amply blessed, was by turns raging at and then pleading to a harassed-looking official whose stock mannerism seemed to be a little shrug of the left shoulder and a display of his palms as if warding off an invisible army. Above them the chairman, a Norwegian, waited unhappily at the microphone, uncertain whether to ignore the commotion and carry on regardless or hang on in the hope that it might, like a summer thunderstorm, quickly blow over.
“And I thought this was going to be dull,” Nick said, enjoying the spectacle, straining his curly head to get a better view. “Who is that guy?”
Chase shook his head. “No idea. But the girl sounds American.”
They watched as the officials escorted the man and the girl along the aisle and through a side door, the girl arguing as fiercely as ever. The auditorium, silent and rapt till now, droned with speculation like a beehive disturbed by an intruder.
Nick grinned delightedly. “I hope the next act is as good,” he said, but his face fell when the Norwegian began to speak in that unrhythmic swaying singsong that grates on some people and sends others to sleep.
It sent Nick to sleep.
The official held up his hands, palms outward, and twitched his left shoulder. “The governing committee is not required to give a reason, mademoiselle. It is their decision alone. You understand?” He gave a weak smile as if to say that while he personally might sympathize with them, he was powerless to -do anything.
Cheryl nodded slowly, now icily calm. “I see. The fact that my father has flown seven thousand miles to be here doesn’t matter a damn to your committee. They can decide, just like that, and we don’t have the right to ask why or to receive an apology or even a reply. That’s how you run things here, is it?”
“I am sorry, mademoiselle. The decision is not mine.”
“You won’t even give us a reason.” She looked toward her father, who so far had shown neither anger nor disappointment. No emotion at all, in fact.
“As I have said, it is not required. The rules of the conference state that all papers must receive prior approval—”
“But the paper was accepted!”
“No, not so in this instance, mademoiselle. It was provisionally agreed that Dr. Detrick would be allowed to address the conference, subject to his paper being cleared by the committee. The committee has now seen the paper and made its decision.” Again the half-shrug, the tepid smile.
Cheryl ground her teeth. It was her father’s passive attitude, his air of resignation, that angered her almost as much as this bland, round-shouldered nonentity in the dark suit with shiny elbows. Didn’t he care? Damn it, he was a scientist, like herself, and for that reason she felt keenly the injustice of years of effort wasted on the whim of a faceless committee. To be treated in such a despicable fashion and told that not only was his paper disbarred but he would not be permitted to take part in any discussion from the platform. Christ, it was galling!
“By all means Dr. Detrick and yourself are free to attend the conference as delegates,” the official informed her, speaking directly to Cheryl, having decided that she was the one to appease. “The conference is, after all, international, and we are pleased that you have decided to attend.”
The young girl swallowed her anger. “That’s most kind of you, Monsieur—”
“Carpentier.” He made a little bow.
“Monsieur Carpentier.” She breathed and said in a low voice, “But if you think that’s the end of it, you’re very sadly mistaken, Monsieur Carpentier.” His smile faded around the edges. “My father didn’t come all this way to sit around exchanging small talk. He came to deliver a paper and you haven’t given us one reason why you won’t let him. You say the decision isn’t yours; okay, I accept that. You also tell us that we can’t talk to the people whose decision it is. Right. But you can’t stop us talking to the press. Maybe what this shambles of a so-called conference needs is a rocket up its ass.”
“Monsieur, please ...” The official looked pained and appealed to Theo. “I can do no more. I am the spokesman, that is all. I have much to do. You will excuse me, please.” His shoulder twitched and he seemed to drift away and disappear.
Theo turned to leave, his face impassive.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Cheryl cried, enraged by his docility. “Just let these people walk right over you? My God, I thought your work meant something to you. I got the impression that nothing else did for the past twenty years,” she added bitterly.
There and then she could have cut her tongue out, but it was too late. It had been said.
“You were only saying what you felt,” Theo said to her later, at dinner, when she had fumbled her way toward an apology. Having listened, he brought his hand across the white tablecloth and covered hers. “I understand. You have every right to feel I have neglected you. But I would like to say thank you.”
Cheryl gazed at him with a slight frown. “What for?”
“For speaking up for me. I knew then that you did care, that we are, in spite of everything, father and daughter.”
She felt herself coloring. Shit, why wouldn’t her emotions stay still? One minute she hated him, the next she felt compassion—affection— even genuine love. One thing she did know, and this had never wavered: her respect for 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 closing. The woman inside, feathered hat swaying above a face like a weathered prune, regarded him with distinct hostility as he tried to contain a rippling belch, failed, and didn’t get his handkerchief out in time either. The reverberation seemed to rock the elevator.
The feathered prune got out at the second floor, much to Chase’s relief. He carried on to the third and walked along the densely carpeted corridor, trying not to think about what Angie was doing, and by default thinking about it. The strident cry stopped him in his tracks, and he stood, caught in midstride, his mouth instantly dry.
“You heard me—get out, you bastard!”
A woman’s voice, very angry, frayed at the edges with fear.
The corridor seemed to have swallowed up the sound and in the silence Chase wasn’t sure he’d actually heard anything.
“Get out or I’ll call the police! I mean it, I mean it!”
It was coming from the room two doors down from his. Chase’s first instinct was not to interfere. He thought it might be a domestic quarrel. He moved softly onward until he was level with the door, paused, and stood listening. There was a sound, one he couldn’t identify, and then a kind of strangled half-sob.
Chase tapped on the door. “Are you all right in there?” It sounded fatuous, but he didn’t know what else to say.
“No, I’m not all right. Come in please, come in!”
He grasped the knob and turned it and pushed the door open, but after a few inches it was impeded by something, probably a foot.
There was another unidentifiable sound followed by the woman’s shrill, “If you’re coming in, for Christ’s sake get in here!” and when Chase used his full weight the impediment (foot?) shifted and he was inside, staring hard at a young woman with short, sun-streaked hair who was standing on the far side of the be
d holding a tiny traveling clock above her head.
As an object of aggression it seemed rather puny.
Then Chase saw the other participant in the drama. Or rather his hairy wrist emerging from the embroidered cuff of a white jacket, his thick brown fingers gripping the edge of the door.
“Is this a private quarrel?” Chase asked. More fatuousness.
“No, everybody’s welcome to join in,” the girl answered, tightlipped.
The man said nothing. He opened the door still farther. Chase was six feet tall and this fellow topped him by a good three inches. Still holding the door, not looking at Chase but at the girl, the man in the white suit said in a low American accent, “You get the message. I’m not going to repeat it. Tell your father we mean what we say.”
The girl swung the clock back. “Take a running jump, you creep,” she spat at him.
It was then that Chase recognized her—the girl in the hall arguing with the officials—and was about to open his mouth to say something when the man in white pushed him aside and went out without bothering to look at him.
“Shut the door,” the girl said at once. “Lock it.” She wasn’t much over five feet, with a full figure, and still wearing faded blue jeans.
Chase did so. “You seem to cause trouble wherever you go,” he said conversationally.
“I don’t know you,” Cheryl said, “but you seem okay.”
“In that case would you mind putting the clock down?” Chase stood with his back pressed against the door. He wasn’t keen on any more surprises. He stifled a belch and said, “Who the hell was that?”
“I don’t know.” She was massaging her left wrist, which he saw was inflamed with fingermarks. “The bastard, whoever he is, was in the elevator. He followed me to the room and when I tried to shut the door in his face he grabbed me and threw me inside.”
