Binch pushed the stack of reports to one side and lit a Winston, his ninth that morning. Did any of this support the prediction that the world was running out of oxygen? No; not directly at any rate. Then what would confirm it? That was the nub of the problem. He'd looked closely at the most recent figures on oxygen sampling, all of which had shown the oxygen content of the atmosphere to be perfectly stable at around 20.94 percent. If the effect wasn't apparent now, was it really conceivable that within seven years there would be an actual, measurable decline?
Maybe DELFI had fouled up or was being fed with spurious information. But he didn't really believe that, for one very good reason. The change in Frank Kollar, from hardened skeptic to a guy who walked around with a worried look in his eye. Not that he'd turned overnight into a doomsday soothsayer--no, nothing so dramatic. Simply that he'd clammed up, had stopped making his sly cynical jokes, had almost reached the point of noncommunication so that any discussion of the problem consisted of Binch asking questions and Frank not answering them.
"Shall I file these?" Janis asked, gathering the press reports together. When Binch nodded without looking at her, dragging deeply on his cigarette, she said, "Why do you keep reading this stuff, Binch? No wonder you're moody these days. It's enough to depress anybody."
"Because somebody has to. If I didn't bother, who would?" Binch replied, and checked himself. Jesus, he was even starting to sound like Brad. What had happened to Brad? Was he dead? A down-and-out bum somewhere? In a psycho ward? Well now, my friend, he cautioned himself, better take care you don't go the same way. Snap out of it. Think positive. He chuckled gruffly at this piece of shopworn advice, and Janis said: "That's better. Just as long as you don't start talking to yourself." She gave him a meaningful look over her shoulder and went out.
Later in the morning Ty Nolan from the satellite photoreconnais-sance section came up to see him with a file of twenty-by-fifteen-inch glossy prints. These had been taken by the geostationary comsat above the Pacific, transmitted to the receiving station at Temecula near the Mount Palomar Observatory in California, where they'd been computer-enhanced and sent on here. The service was as regular as a milk run and Binch didn't see every batch that came through; just now and then, when the PR section had a problem, which was the case today.
"It shows up here," Ty Nolan said, pointing to an area south of the New Hebrides, "and here, southwest of the Solomon Islands, and also here"--he pulled another glossy print from the sheaf and placed his finger on the spot--"south of the Ellice Islands, longitude one hundred eighty degrees. It isn't cloud shadow or lens distortion. At least we're pretty sure it isn't."
Binch held a photograph in either hand, peering at each in turn. "What am I supposed to be looking at? I don't see anything."
Ty Nolan handed him a magnifying lens. Binch leaned closer.
"Fuzzy dark patches. Do you see them?"
"Yes," Binch said slowly. He reached for another print and examined it through the magnifier. "What do you estimate their size to be?"
"The one near the Solomon Islands is roughly twenty miles by nine. The other two are slightly smaller, though it's hard to be precise because the edges are blurred."
"They're too big for fish shoals."
"Plus the fact they don't move," Ty Nolan said, delving into the file and laying three more prints on the desk. "These were taken twenty-four hours earlier and the positions are identical." He pushed his hand through straggly blond hair. "We've all had a crack at it but nobody can figure out what it is. Or what they are, I should say. Then somebody suggested you." He grinned.
"I'm flattered," Binch said dryly. And none the wiser, he thought. "What about an infrared scan?"
"This comsat doesn't have it."
"Wonderful. What's the depth of the ocean hereabouts?"
"Pretty shallow, less than three thousand feet. It's the Melanesian area, bordered by the Coral Sea and the South Fiji Basin. Hell of a size, over four thousand square miles."
"Any eye-sightings to confirm these?" Binch offered cigarettes, which the other refused, and lit one himself.
"No reports so far, but then all three are some distance from land. And whatever they are, they could be below the surface and therefore not visible at sea level." The young man perched himself on the corner of the desk, his pleasant boyish face set in a perplexed frown. "Any ideas, Binch?"
Binch stared at the prints scattered across the desk. Droughts. Floods. Fuzzy dark patches in the western Pacific. Were these the signs he was looking for? He was reluctant to think they might be--and even more reluctant to admit that DELFI wasn't mistaken.
What if the human race had sown the wind and was about to reap the whirlwind? A whirlwind devoid of oxygen?
Dear God, what if DELFI was right?
Elaine Krantz came drowsily awake in the hot pressing darkness. For one horrific moment she thought she was suffocating.
By her side in the double bunk her husband, Jay, slept soundly, his faint snoring oddly muffled in the small airless cabin of the thirty-eight-foot fiberglass sloop Seabird. After several weeks at sea she was accustomed to the sound and found it comforting.
Boy, it was stifling! The wind must have dropped altogether, she decided, moving her tanned legs from beneath the single sheet. There were times, even now, when she reckoned she must have been crazy to agree to the trip. Jay had called it their "honeymoon adventure"--and adventure it was, all right. Tossed about in a plastic eggcup, drenched with spray, stung by wind, and baked crisp under a pitiless Pacific sun. Now that she'd endured her baptism at sea, though, she felt rather proud and just that bit superior. Starting out by detesting the little craft, she'd come to love every inch of it, and endeavored to keep the cabin and tiny galley as neat and shiny as if it were her first home.
From Fanning Island, almost on the equator, they had sailed to Pago Pago in the Samoan group, then Neiafu, Suva, and Vila, island-hopping through the Fijis and New Hebrides. They were now on the last lap, having left Honiara three days before, and with Malaita less than twenty-four hours away, given a good breeze.
Though there wasn't a whisper of air tonight, much less a decent breeze. And that was strange, Elaine thought, cocking her head--she couldn't even hear the familiar swish and gurgle of water against the hull.
Careful not to disturb her husband, she slipped down from the bunk and padded naked to the companionway, so sure of her bearings that she put her hand unerringly 011 the rope handrail in the pitch-blackness and hauled herself on deck.
The stench hit her in the stomach.
She caught her breath, gagged, and screwed up her face as she fought back the nausea in her chest. In the next instant even this discomfort was forgotten as she looked around at what should have been a boundless expanse of ocean glittering in the moonlight. There was no ocean. Only a dark reddish solid unmoving mass as far as the horizon, absolutely still and silent. Seabird was stuck in the middle of it like a fly in molasses.
Elaine yelled for her husband, filling her mouth and nostrils with the evil smell. As he tumbled onto the small square of afterdeck Jay stubbed his toe and cursed, but the word was smothered in silence as he took his first foul breath and saw the motionless quagmire surrounding them.
Under the purple dome of the night sky the silence and stillness were eerie.
"It's some kind of weed," Jay grunted, leaning over the stern and scooping up a soggy handful. "Jesus, what a smell!"
"But where's it from?" Elaine wanted to know. "It must stretch for miles."
Jay squatted on his haunches, sun-bleached hair silvery in the moonlight. "Could be dead kelp," he said thoughtfully, "just drifting along with the current. The Sargasso Sea is supposed to be like this, though I've never seen it."