Jon Breen: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 114, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 697 & 698, September/October 1999

“Ash?” asked Drake.

“Yep. Very old ash. From some ancient volcano that used to be here. It got trapped between the ice layer and the water underneath, and froze so quickly that it’s been preserved ever since. Would you hold this collection jar for me, Dr. Drake?”

“Certainly. And call me Pat, please.”

After their climb down, and on the walk back, Drake was staring distractedly out at the starkness of the shelf when Latham asked, “So how are we doing, Pat?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Drake said, when Latham’s voice got through his reverie.

“I asked how we’re doing. You know, the team. Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Just a little tired today. We’re doing splendidly, Ed. Better than I hoped.”

Except, he thought, for those bruises on Claire’s body.

When they got back to the blockhouse, they found that the gin and scotch had been broken out early by the rest of the team, who were in an exuberant mood over what Owen Foster had collected under the ice shelf on his dive that day.

“Look at these, Pat!” Sally all but screeched, running to him with an underwater collection tube. “Look what Owen found! Look at the color of these!”

Examining the jar, Drake detected, among a small cluster of black algae, several that were not completely black, but rather bluish black. Where did you find them?” Drake asked.

“It’ll all be in my report, Doctor,” Foster said with smug aloofness.

Drake, thoughts of Claire’s bruises still circulating, took a step forward, eyes narrowing, and said, “Don’t get cute with me, Foster, or I’ll have you on the next goddamned helicopter out of here. Now where’d you find them?”

“Forty-nine feet down,” Foster said tightly, his own eyes darkening in anger. “There’s a microbial mat down there that’s definitely different from the earlier ones Harley and I have found. It’s — I don’t know, a tighter mat, more closely formed—”

“Maybe to protect this lighter species,” Claire offered.

“Protect it from what?” Owen snapped, throwing her an annoyed look.

“From warmth that it’s not used to,” Sally interjected. “From warmth that it’s never felt, and is instinctively frightened of.”

“Of course,” Drake said, almost speaking to himself. “Warmth coming from far down. So far down that the water is warmer—”

Now Owen Foster’s expression became excited. “Because global warming is pushing heavier warm water under the ice cap—”

“—and it’s gradually working its way upward,” Drake finished the thought for him.

“I’ll be damned,” Ed Latham whispered.

“Me too,” agreed Paul Green. The big bear of a man and his smaller friend slapped hands like a couple of basketball players.

A silence came over the group then, only momentary, but as if dictated by some higher plane of feeling that somehow governed them all individually and as a group. It was almost religious, perhaps even divine. For a split instant of time, they were like apostles who suddenly found themselves in the presence of their god.

Finally, Drake stepped over and poured a drink for himself. He raised it in a toast.

“Colleagues,” he said, “I think this is our breakthrough.”

Drake worked up a new schedule that night, focusing entirely on the latest evidence gathered from Owen Foster’s dive. Sally, Claire, and Ed Latham were assigned exclusively to laboratory duty, running full-spectrum tests on the new blue-black algae. Porter, the medical doctor, took over block duty and pitched in to help in the preparation of reports. Foster and Harley Neil increased their diving-schedule depth by decreasing the time spent underwater. Drake and big Paul Green worked together as dive techs to expedite the submersions, decreasing dive prep time, and shuttling fresh samples back to the blockhouse lab.

“Keep a tight rein on the dive times and depths, Pat,” Porter cautioned the next morning as the four men prepared to leave for the dive site.

“I will, Emil,” Drake assured the tall, hawkish man. “I’m not going to blow this by being overanxious, believe me.”

By noon that day, Harley Neil had returned to the surface with more bluish black algae, this sampling containing an even lighter blue cast than the previous day’s find.

“How far down?” Drake asked.

“Fifty-two feet,” the young diver replied.

When Foster came up a little while later from fifty-five feet, the bluish tint was lighter still. A subsequent dive by both men that afternoon, down to fifty-nine feet, produced for the first time a greenish black sample.

“They’re getting lighter,” Owen Foster said elatedly as he and Harley sat through routine medical exams by Emil Porter at the end of the day.

“Definitely,” Harley agreed. “I just wish there was some way we could get around the random gathering and be more selective in what we catch—”

“Maybe there is,” Foster said. “Why not each take a second lantern for more light? That way we’ll be able to better distinguish color down there.”

“But what about the weight? A second lantern, I don’t know—”

“We can handle the weight,” Foster said confidently.

Drake cut into the conversation, saying, “You may be able to handle it, but I’m not so sure about the generators supplying the power. I don’t want them running hot. Let’s not rush this, okay?”

Foster glared at him for a moment, then replied grudgingly, “You’re the boss, Drake.”

“That’s right, I am,” Drake said evenly.

And if you don’t like it, he thought, try punching me around.

The next day, Foster and Neil each made two more dives, the first to sixty-two feet, which prompted Emil Porter, who came out to the dive site for samples, to say to Drake, “This worries me, Pat, diving into the sixties like this.”

“It’s got to be done, Emil,” Drake insisted. “The deeper we go, the lighter the algae we find. We’ve got to follow through on this.”

“Then shorten the dives,” the doctor said. “More depth, less time down. Compensate.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll try.”

But that afternoon, on the second dive, with both men at sixty-five feet, Drake let the dive run a few minutes longer.

“This is risky, Pat,” said Paul Green nervously.

“Just keep it to yourself,” Drake said shortly. “This has to be up to Owen and Harley, not us or Emil Porter. They know what they can handle down there.”

But as it turned out, one of them did not. Even though the afternoon dive produced the best, lightest-green-pigmented algae yet found, it effectively eliminated Harley Neil from dive duty.

“You’re grounded,” Dr. Porter announced after the evening physical exam.

“What! Like hell I am!” Harley protested.

“I have the medical authority to keep you out of the water,” Porter said flatly. “I’m exercising that authority.” He turned to Drake. “I warned you, Pat.”

“What’s the basis for your decision?” Drake asked.

“Blood alkalinity is down, systolic and diastolic pressure both up, there’s some ocular expansion, and the beginning of sinus stricture. That enough for you?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to Harley. “No alcohol for twenty-four hours, no diving for forty-eight. Then I’ll reevaluate you.”

“Damn it, this cuts the dive schedule in half!” Harley pounded the side of his fist on the table.

“No, it doesn’t,” Drake said. “I’ll take your place. I’m certified.”

Dr. Porter raised one eyebrow sceptically. “How long has it been since you dived?”

“Awhile. But I am certified. Radio the foundation if you don’t believe me.” He bobbed his chin at Neil. “Harley can work as dive tech, can’t he?”