Текст книги "White Death"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Ryan realized his outburst would bolster the image of a hothead capable of ramming a ship. He regained his composure. "My apolo– gies, sir. I was not told that the video would be introduced into evi– dence. I hope I will have the chance to comment on it."

"This is not an American court of law, but you will have every op– portunity to make your side known before this hearing is adjourned. The board will hear from Captain Petersen and his crew as soon as they are able. You will remain in protective custody at the police sta– tion until then. We will do our best to expedite the process."

Ryan thanked the court. Then, escorted by the policemen, he left the room.

"Is that all?" Austin asked Becker.

"Apparently so. I expected they might ask you back to the stand, but it appears they don't need you anymore. I hope your plans haven't been disrupted."

Austin assured Becker that it was no problem. He sat in his chair as the room began to empty, chewing over Ryan's testimony. Either the man was telling the truth or he was a very good actor. That would be for wiser men to decide. First a good, stiff cup of coffee, then he would check out earlier flights to Copenhagen. From there, he'd fly back to Washington.

"Mr. Austin."

A woman was walking toward him, her face wreathed in a bright smile. Austin noticed her athletic and well-proportioned figure, the chestnut hair that fell to her shoulders, the unblemished skin and

alert eyes. She was dressed in a white Icelandic wool jumper known as a lopapesya.

They shook hands. "My name is Therri Weld," she said, in a voice

that was mellow and warm. "I'm a legal advisor with the SOS or– ganization."

"Nice to meet you, Ms. Weld. What can I do for you?" Therri had been watching Austin's serious expression as he gave his testimony, and she was unprepared for his devastating smile. With his broad shoulders, burnished features and blue-green eyes, he reminded her of a buccaneer captain in a pirate movie. She almost

forgot what she was going to say, but quickly regained her mental footing.

"I wonder if you could spare a few minutes of your time," she said.

"I was about to look for a cup of coffee. You're welcome to join me.

"Thanks. There's a pretty decent cafe around the corner." They found a quiet table and ordered two cappuccinos.

"Your testimony was fascinating," she said, as they sipped their coffee.

"Your Captain Ryan was the star of the day. My words paled by comparison with his story."

Therri laughed softly. Her laughter had a musical lilt that Austin liked. "Today wasn't his finest hour, I'm afraid. Usually he can be

quite eloquent, particularly on those subjects he's most passionate about."

"Tough trying to explain to a bunch of skeptics that your ship was possessed by evil spirits. The reporter's testimony and the video didn't help."

"I agree, which is why I wanted to meet with you."

Austin gave her his best country-boy grin. "Aw, shucks, I had hoped you found yourself hopelessly attracted by my animal mag– netism."

Therri raised a finely arched brow. "That goes without saying," she said. "But the main reason I wanted to talk was to see if you could help SOS."

"To begin with, Ms. Weld-"

"Therri. And may I call you Kurt?"

Austin nodded. "I've got a couple of problems right off the bat, Therri. First of all, I don't know how I can help you. And second, I don't know if I want to help your organization. I'm not in favor of whale slaughter, but I don't endorse radical nutcases."

Therri skewered Austin with a leveled gaze of her laser-bright eyes. "Henry David Thoreau, John Muir and Edward Abbey were considered radical nut cases in their times. But I concede your point. SOS tends to be too activist for the taste of many. Okay, you say you don't endorse radicals. Do you endorse injustice, because that's exactly what's involved here."

"In what way?"

"Marcus did not ram that Danish ship on purpose. I was in the pilot– house when it happened. He and the others did everything they could to avoid that collision."

"Have you told this to the Danish authorities?"

"Yes. They said they didn't need me to testify and told me to leave the country."

"Okay," Austin said. "I believe you."

"Just like that? You don't seem like someone who accepts the world at face value."

"I don't know what else to say without offending you."

"Nothing you say can offend me."

"Glad to hear that. But what gives you the idea that I would care whether the case against Ryan is just or not?"

"I'm not asking you to care about Marcus." Therri's tone hinted that there was a bit of hard steel behind her soft features. Austin suppressed a smile. "What exactly do you want from me, Therri?"

She brushed a lock of hair out other face and said, "I'd like you to make a dive on the Sea Sentinel"

"What purpose would a dive serve?"

"It might prove that Marcus is innocent." "In what way?"

She spread her hands. "I don't know. But you might find some– thing', all I know is that Marcus is telling the truth. To be honest, much of his radicalism is hot air. He's really a hard-nosed pragma– list who calculates the odds very carefully. He's not the kind of per– son who goes around ramming navy ships in a fury. Besides, he loved the Sea Sentinel. He even picked the ridiculous psychedelic color scheme himself. No one on the ship, including me, intended for any– one to get hurt."

Austin leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head and stared at Therri's earnest face. He liked the way her perfect lips turned up in a Mona Lisa smile even when she was serious. Her girl– next-door appearance couldn't disguise the sensuous woman who lurked behind remarkable eyes. There were a thousand reasons why he should simply thank her for the coffee, shake her hand and wish her good luck. There were maybe three good reasons why he might consider her request. She was beautiful. She might have a case. And, right or wrong, she was passionate about her cause. His plane flight was two days away. There was no reason his short stay in the Faroes had to be boring.

Intrigued, he sat forward, and ordered another round of coffees.

"Okay, then," Austin said. "Tell me exactly what happened."

8

A FEW HOURS LATER, Austin was a world away from the

warmth of the coffee shop, encased in the bulbous protective armor of his aluminum Hardsuit, sinking once more into the cold Faroese sea. As he dropped into the deep, he smiled as he pictured how Becker would react if he knew that a Danish vessel was being used to help Marcus Ryan and the SOS. It would serve the conniv– ing little bureaucrat right, Austin thought, his chuckle echoing inside the helmet.

After taking leave of Them Weld, he had gone back to the hotel, called Captain Larsen and asked permission to make another dive from the Thor. He said he wanted to shoot pictures of the rescue scene for a report, which was partially true. Larsen didn't hesitate to say yes and even sent a shuttle boat in to bring Austin back to the ship.

Since Becker had asked Austin to leave the Hardsuit, it was all ready for him.

Austin's fathometer told him he was nearing bottom. He slowed his descent with short bursts of the vertical thrusters and came to a hummingbird hover about fifty feet above the bow section of the cruiser. The sea had wasted no time gathering the ship to its bosom. A shaggy coat of marine growth covered the hull and superstructure like an alpaca blanket. Schools ofdeepwater fish nosed in and out of the portholes, drawn by sea life that had made its home in the shad– owed nooks and crannies of the vessel.

Using a digital still camera, Austin shot pictures of the hole that the Sea Lamprey had made during the rescue mission and of the three-sided gash where the Sea Sentinel had punctured the hull. Austin had quizzed Captain Larsen about the last known position of the Sea Sentinel, relative to the cruiser. Using an undersea dead reck– oning, he headed in the general area of the sinking.

He used a standard search pattern, running a series of roughly parallel courses until his lights picked out the psychedelic paint job on the ship's hull. Like the cruiser, the SOS ship was already grow– ing a fur coat of marine growth. The combination of sea grass and tie-dye effect was startling. The Sea Sentinel had landed right-side– up on the bottom, and except for its smashed pug nose, the ship ap– peared to be in sound condition.

Austin surveyed the crushed bow and recalled Ryan's testimony. The engines had gone haywire, Ryan said, and failed to respond to controls. There was no way to check out the engines without going inside the wreck, but the steering system might more easily be in– vestigated, because part of it was external. The steering of a modern ship is done with a combination of electronics and hydraulics. But even with computers, GPS positioning and autopilot, the concept is no different than it was when Columbus set sail to look for India. At one end is a wheel or a tiller. At the other is a rudder. Turn the wheel, and the rudder pivots, sending the vessel in the appropriate direction.

Austin soared above the stern, executed a hairpin turn, then dropped several yards until he was facing the man-tail rudder. Curious.

The rudder was intact, but something was out of sync. Bolted to the rudder were two cables that led forward from the blade to each side of the hull. Austin followed the starboard cable to a steel box about the size of a large suitcase that was welded to the hull. An elec– trical conduit led from the box through the hull.

Even more curious.

The welds around the boxes and conduit were shiny and looked new. He backed off and followed the cable to an identical box on the other side. He raised the camera and made a couple of shots. A rubber-coated line as thick as a man's thumb connected the two boxes. Another line ran from the port-side box along the curve of the hull to a point that would have been above the waterline when the ship was afloat. At its end was a flat plastic disk about six inches in diameter. The significance of what he was seeing dawned on Austin.

Loofs lie someone owes you an apology, Mr. Ryan. Austin took some pictures, then pried the disk off with his ma– nipulators and placed it in a carrying case attached to the outside of the Hardsuit. He stayed down another twenty minutes, exploring every square inch of the hull. Finding nothing more out of the ordi– nary, he tapped his vertical thruster control and began the trip to the surface. Once out of his Hardsuit, he thanked Captain Larsen for the use of the Thor and caught a boat ride into Torshavn.

Back in his hotel room, he slipped the cassette out of the digital camera and into his laptop computer and brought the underwater pictures onto the screen. He studied the enlarged and enhanced pic– tures until he practically had them committed to memory, then he called Therri and asked to meet her again at the coffee shop. He got there early and had the computer set up on the table when she arrived a few minutes later.

"Good news or bad?" she said.

"Both." Austin pushed the laptop across the table. "I've solved one mystery, but uncovered another."

She sat down and stared at the picture on the screen. "What ex– actly am I looking at?"

"I think it's a mechanism to override or bypass the steering con– trols from the bridge."

"You're sure of this?"

"Reasonably certain."

He clicked the computer mouse through a series of pictures that showed the boxes welded to the hull from different angles. "These housings could cover winches that can pull the rudder in either di– rection or lock it in place. Look here. This electrical connection runs up the side of the ship to a receiver above the waterline. Someone out– side the ship could have controlled the steering."

Therri furrowed her brow. "Looks like a little pie plate."

Austin dug into his jacket, pulled out the plastic disk he'd pried off the hull, and dropped it on the table. "No pie in this plate. It's an antenna that could have been used to pick up signals."

Therri glanced at the screen, then picked the disk up and studied it. "This would explain the steering problems Marcus had. What about the engines he couldn't shut down?"

"You've got me there," Austin said. "If you could get into the ship and tear the engine room apart, maybe you'd find a mechanism that would allow the ship's speed to be controlled from the outside as well."

"I knew everyone on the Sea Sentinel. They're intensely loyal." She jutted her chin forward as if she expected an argument. "There's no one in that crew who would sabotage the ship."

"I haven't made any accusations."

"Sorry," she said. "I suppose I should keep an open mind about someone from the crew being involved."

"Not necessarily. Let me ask what they say at airport security. Did anyone else pack your baggage or has it been out of your sight?"

"So you do think someone from the outside could have sabotaged the ship."

Austin nodded. "I found a power source line for the winches lead– ing into the hull to tap the ship's energy supply. Someone would have to get inside the ship to accomplish that."

"Now that you mention it," she said without hesitation, "the ship needed some engine work. It was in dry dock for four days in the Shetland Islands."

"Who did the work?" "Marcus would know. I'll ask him."

"It could be important." He tapped the screen. "This may be Ryan's ticket out of jail. I'd suggest you get in touch with a guy at my hotel named Becker who seems to be some sort ofbehind-the-scenes mucky-muck with the Danish navy department. He might be able to help."

"I don't understand. Why would the Danes want to help Marcus after all the awful things they've said about him?"

"That's for public consumption. What they really want is to kick Ryan's butt out of the Faroes and make sure he never shows his face here again. They don't want him to get on his soapbox, because it might scare away companies that are thinking about investing in the Faroes. Sorry if this messes up Ryan's martyrdom plans."

"I won't deny that Marcus was hoping to make this a cause celebre."

"Isn't that a risky strategy? If he pushes the Danes too far, they may be forced to convict him and toss him into jail. He doesn't strike me as a reckless guy."

"He isn't reckless at all, but Marcus will take a calculated risk if he thinks the stakes are worth it. In this case, he would have weighed going to jail against a chance to stop the grind."

Austin extracted the camera cassette from the computer and pre– sented it to Therri. "Tell Becker that I will testify to what I saw and verify that I took these pictures. I'll run a check on the manufacturer of this antenna, but it's possible that it was put together out of stan– dard parts and won't tell us anything."

"I don't know how to thank you," Therri said, rising from her chair.

"My standard fee is acceptance of a dinner invitation."

"I'd be more than pleased to-" She stopped short and glanced across the room past Austin's shoulder. "Kurt, do you know that man? He's been staring at you for some time."

Austin turned, and saw a balding, long-jawed man in his sixties, who was now making his way to the table.

"It's Kurt Austin ofNUMA, if I'm not mistaken," the man said in a booming voice.

Austin stood and extended his hand. "Professor Jorgensen, nice to see you. It's been three years since we last saw each other."

"Four, actually, since we worked on that project in the Yucatan. What a wonderful surprise! I saw the news of the miraculous rescue you performed, but assumed you had departed the Faroes."

The professor was tall and narrow-shouldered. The ample tufts of hair flanking his freckled pate resembled swan wings. He spoke English with an Oxford accent, which was not surprising, since he had spent his undergraduate years at the famed English university.

"I stayed on to help Ms. Weld here with a project." Austin intro– duced Therri, and said, "This is Professor Peter Jorgensen. Dr. Jor– gensen is one of the foremost fisheries physiologists in the world." "Kurt makes it sound far more glamorous than it is. I'm simply a fish physician, so to speak. Well, what brings you to this far-flung out– post of civilization, Ms. Weld?"

"I'm an attorney. I'm studying the Danish legal system."

Austin said, "How about you, Professor? Are you doing some work here in the Faroes?"

"Yes, I've been looking into some peculiar phenomena," he said, without taking his eyes off of Therri. "Maybe I'm being forward, but I have a splendid suggestion. Perhaps we could have dinner together tonight and I could tell you about what I've been doing." "I'm afraid Ms. Weld and I already have plans." A pained expression crossed Them's face. "Oh, Kurt, I'm so sorry. I started to say I'd be pleased to have dinner with you, but not tonight. I'm going to be busy with that legal matter we discussed."

"Hoist by my own petard," Austin said with a shrug. "Looks like you and I have a date, Professor."

"Splendid! I'll see you in the dining room of the Hotel Hania around seven, if that sounds all right." Turning to Therri, he said,

"I'm devastated, Ms. Weld. I hope we will meet again." He kissed her hand.

"He's charming," Therri said, after Jorgensen left. "Very courtly in an old-fashioned way."

"I agree," Austin said, "but I'd still rather have you as my dinner partner."

"I'm so sorry. Perhaps when we get back to the States." Her eyes darkened a shade. "I've been thinking about your theory about the possibility that the Sea Sentinel was controlled from the outside. What would be the range involved in controlling a ship?"

"It could be done from quite a distance, but whoever did it would stay close by to see if the ship were responding to command. Any ideas?"

"There were a number of boats carrying press in the area. Even a helicopter."

"The controls could have been worked from the sea or the air. It wouldn't have required much in the way of equipment. A transmit– ter with a joystick, maybe, like you see for video games. Assuming we know the how, let's talk about the why. Who would benefit by neutralizing Ryan?"

"Do you have all day? The list could go on forever. Marcus has made enemies all over the world."

"For a start, let's confine ourselves to the Faroe Islands." "The whalers would top the enemy list. Passions run high over the issue, but they're basically decent people, in spite of their odd customs. I can't see them attacking the navy ship that's been sent to protect them." She paused in thought. "There's another possibility, but it's probably too farfetched to consider."

Try me.

She furrowed her brow in concentration. "After thegrindarap op– eration, Marcus and his crew planned to make a showing at a fish farm owned by the Oceanus Corporation. The Sentinels are also against large-scale aquaculture, because of the harm to the environ– ment."

"What do you know about Oceanus?"

"Not much. It's a multinational distributor of seafood products. Traditionally, they've bought fish from fleets around the world, but in the last few years they've gotten into aquaculture in a huge way. Their fish farms are on the same scale as some of the land farms op– erated by the agribusiness outfits in the States."

"You think Oceanus could have arranged this whole thing?"

"Oh, I don't know, Kurt. They would have the resources, though. And, just maybe, the motive."

"Where was their fish farm located?"

"Not far from here, near a place called Skaalshavn. Marcus planned to run the Sea Sentinel back and forth in front of the farm for the benefit of the cameras." Therri glanced at her watch. "That reminds me… I should be going. I've got a lot of work to do."

They shook hands, vowing to get together again. Therri made her way across the dining room and stopped briefly to throw him a coquettish glance over her shoulder. The gesture was probably meant to be reassuring, but it only made Austin sadder.

9

PROFESSOR JORGENSEN HAD politely watched for sev– eral minutes as Austin tried to navigate his way through the in– comprehensible courses listed on the menu, but finally he could bear it no longer. He leaned across the table and said, "If you'd like to try a Faroese specialty, I'd recommend the fried puffin or the pilot-whale steak."

Austin pictured himself gnawing on a drumstick from one of the stubby little birds with the parrot beak and passed on the puffin. After hearing the bloody way in which pilot whales met their demise in the Faroes, he decided he would rather eat shark snout, but he set– tled for thes/yrpily'ot, well-aged mutton. After one bite, he wished he had gone for the puffin.

"How's your mutton?" Jorgensen said.

"Not quite as tough as shoe leather," Austin replied, working his jaw.

"Oh my, I should have advised you to get the boiled mutton, as I did. They dry slerpifyot in the wind. It's usually prepared at Christ– mas and served the rest of the year. It's a bit over the hill, as they say." He brightened at a new thought. "The life expectancy in the Faroes is quite high, so it must be good for you."

Austin sawed off a small bite and managed to swallow it. Then he put his knife and fork down while he gave his jaw muscles a rest. "What brings you to the Faroes, Dr. Jorgensen? It can't be the food."

The professor's eyes danced with amusement. "I've been looking into reports of diminishing fish stocks in the islands. It's a real mys– tery!

"In what way?"

"I thought at first that the cause of the vanishing fish might be pol– lution, but the waters are amazingly pure around the Faroes. I can only do so much testing on-site, so I'm heading back to Copenhagen tomorrow to run some water samples through the computer. There may be small traces of chemicals that might have a bearing on the problem."

"Any theories as to the source of the chemicals?" "It's strange," he said, tugging at one of his tufts of hair. "I'm sure

the problem has something to do with a nearby fish farm, but so far there is no discernible link between the two."

Austin had been eyeing the mutton, wondering where he could get a burger, but his ears perked up at the professor's words. "Did you say you were testing the water near a fish farm?"

"Yes. There are several aquaculture facilities in the islands that produce trout, salmon and the like. I collected samples from the wa– ters around a farming operation in Skaalshavn, a few hours' drive up the coast from Torshavn on Sundini, the long sound that separates Streymoy from the island ofEysturoy. Used to be a whaling station there in the old days. The farm is owned by a big fisheries conglom– erate."

Austin took a long shot. "Oceanus?"

"Yes, you've heard of it?" "Only recently. As I understand what you're saying, Professor, the fish levels near this farm are lower than they should be."

"That's right," Jorgensen replied with furrowed brow. "A real puzzle."

"I've heard fish farms can be harmful to the environment," Austin said, recalling his conversation with Therri Weld.

"True. The waste products from a fish farm can be toxic. They feed the fish a special chemical diet so they'll grow faster, but Oceanus claims it has a state-of-the-art water purification system. So far I haven't found any evidence to dispute that claim."

"Have you visited this fish farm?"

Jorgensen bared his big teeth in a grin. "No visitors allowed. They've got the placed locked up tighter than the crown jewels. I managed to speak off-premises with someone from the law firm that represents the company in Denmark. He assured me that no chem– icals were used at the farm and that it has the finest in water-cleaning facilities. Always the skeptical scientist, I rented a little house not far from the Oceanus operation and went as close as I could by boat to take the water samples. As I said, I'm leaving for Copenhagen to– morrow, but you and your young lady friend are welcome to go up to the cottage. It's a pretty ride."

"Thanks, Professor. Unfortunately, Ms. Weld will be busy the next few days."

"That is unfortunate." Austin nodded absentmindedly. He was intrigued by Jorgensen's mention of the tight security at Oceanus. Where some might see this as an obstacle, Austin saw an invitation to probe the connection be– tween Oceanus and the disastrous collision of the SOS ship and the cruiser. "I might take you up on your cottage offer. I'd like to see a little more of the Faroes before I leave."

"Wonderful! Stay as long as you want. The islands are spectacu– lar. I'll call the landlord to say you'll be coming. His name is Gunnar Jepsen, and he lives in a house behind the cottage. You can use my rental car. There's a small boat that goes along with the cottage and plenty to keep you busy. Incredible birding on the cliffs, the hiking is superb, and there are some fascinating archeological ruins nearby." Austin smiled and said, "I'm sure I'll find something to do."

After dinner, they had a nightcap in the hotel bar, then bid each other good-bye with a promise to hook up in Copenhagen. The pro– fessor was staying with a friend that night and would leave the is– lands in the morning. Austin went up to his hotel room. He wanted to get an early start the next day. He went over to the window and stood awhile in thought as he looked out over the quaint town and harbor, then he snatched up his cell phone and punched out a familiar number.

Gamay Morgan-Trout was in her office at NUMA headquarters in Washington, D.C., staring intently at the computer monitor, when the telephone rang. Without moving her eyes from the screen, she picked up the telephone and mumbled an absentminded hello. At the sound of Austin's voice, she broke into a dazzling smile that was made distinctive by the slight space between her front teeth.

"Kurt!" she said with obvious delight. "It's wonderful to hear from you."

"Same here. How are things back at NUMA?"

Still smiling, Gamay brushed a strand of long, dark-red hair away from her forehead and said, "We've been treading water here since you and Joe left. I'm reading a new abstract on toadfish nerve re– search that could help cure balance problems in humans. Paul's at his computer working on a model of the Java Trench. I don't know when I've had so much excitement. I feel sorry for you and Joe. That daring rescue must have bored you to tears."

Paul Trout's computer was back-to-back with his wife's. Trout was staring at the screen in typical pose, with head dipped low, par– tially in thought, but also to accommodate his six-foot-eight height. He had light-brown hair parted down the middle in Jazz Age style and combed back at the temples. As always, he was dressed impec– cably, wearing a lightweight olive tan suit from Italy, and one of the colorful matching bow ties that were his addiction. He peered up– ward with hazel eyes, as if over glasses, although he wore contacts.

"Please ask our fearless leader when he's coming home," Paul said. "NUMA headquarters has been as quiet as a tomb while he and Joe have been making headlines."

Austin overheard Trout's question. "Tell Paul I'll be back at my desk in a few days. Joe's due later in the week, after he wraps up tests on his latest toy. I wanted to let you know where I'd be. I'm driving up the Faroe coast tomorrow to a little village called Skaalshavn."

"What's going on?" Gamay said.

"I want to look into a fish-farm operation run by a company called Oceanus. There may be a connection between Oceanus and the sink– ing of those two ships here in the Faroes. While I'm poking around, could you see what you can learn about this outfit? I don't have much to go on. Maybe Hiram can help out." Hiram Yeager was the com– puter whiz who rode herd on NUMA's vast database.

They chatted a few more minutes, with Austin filling Gamay in on the rescue of the Danish sailors, then hung up, with Gamay prom– ising to get right on the Oceanus request. She related the gist of her conversation with Austin.

"Kurt can whistle up a wind better than anyone I know," Paul said with a chuckle, alluding to the ancient belief that whistling on a ship can attract a storm. "What did he want to know about fish-farming, how to run your tractor underwater?"

"No, a grain binder," Gamay said with exaggerated primness. "How could I forget that you practically grew up on a fishing boat?"

"Just a simple son of a son of a fisherman, as Jimmy Buffett would say." Trout had been born on Cape Cod, into a fishing family. His an– cestral path had diverged when, as a youngster, he hung around the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution. Some of the scientists at the Institution had encouraged him to study oceanography. He'd re– ceived his Ph.D. in ocean science at the Scripps Institution of Oceanography, specializing in deep-ocean geology, and was profi– cient in using computer graphics in his various undersea projects.

"I happen to know that despite your display of ignorance, you know a lot more about aquaculture than you let on."

"Fish-farming is nothing new. Back home, folks have been seeding and harvesting the clam and oyster flats for a hundred years or more."

"Then you know it's essentially the same principle, only extended to fin fish. The fish are bred in tanks and raised in open net cages that float in the ocean. The farms can produce fish in a fraction of the time it takes to catch them in the wild."

Paul frowned. "With the government clamping down on the wild fishery because of stock depletion, competition like that is the last thing a fisherman needs."

"The fish farmers would disagree. They say aquaculture produces cheaper food, provides employment and pours money into the econ– omy."

"As a marine biologist, where do you stand on the issue?" Gamay had received a degree in marine archaeology before chang– ing her field of interest and enrolling at Scripps, where she'd attained a doctorate in marine biology, and in the process met and married Paul.

"I guess I stand smack in the middle," she said. "Fish-farming does have benefits, but I'm a little worried that with big companies running the farms, things could get out of control."

"Which way is the wind blowing?"

"Hard to tell, but I can give you an example of what's happening. Imagine you're a politician running for office and the fish-farm in– dustry says it will invest hundreds of millions of dollars in the coastal communities, and that investment will generate jobs and billions of dollars each year in economic activity in your district. Which side would you back ?"