Текст книги "White Death"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

Trout let out a low whistle. "Billions? I had no idea there was that kind of money involved."

"I'm talking about a fraction of the world business. There are fish farms all over the world. If you've had salmon or shrimp or scallops lately, the fish you ate could have been raised in Canada or Thailand or Colombia."

"The farms must have incredible capacity to pump out fish in those quantities."

"It's phenomenal. In British Columbia, they've got seventy million farm-raised salmon compared to fifty-five thousand wild caught."

"How can the wild fishermen compete with production like that?"

"They cant" Gamay said, with a shrug. "Kurt was interested in a company called Oceanus. Let's see what I can find."

Her hands played over the computer keyboard. "Strange. Usually the biggest problem with the Internet is too much information. There's almost nothing on Oceanus. All I could find is this one– paragraph article saying that a salmon-processing plant in Canada had been sold to Oceanus. I'll peck around some more."

It took another fifteen minutes of hunting, and Paul was deep in the Java Trench again, when he heard Gamay finally say, "Aha!" "Pay dirt?"

Gamay scrolled down. "I found a few sentences about the acqui– sition buried in an industry newsletter story. Oceanus apparently owns companies around the world that are expected to produce more than five hundred million pounds a year. The merger gives market access in this country through an American subsidiary. The seller figures the U.S. will buy a quarter of what they produce."

"Five hundred million pounds! I'm turning in my fishing rod. I wouldn't mind seeing one of these plants. Where's the nearest one?" "The Canadian operation I just mentioned. I'd like to see it, too." "So what's stopping us? We're twiddling our thumbs while Kurt and Joe are away. The world isn't in need of saving, and if it is, Dirk and Al are always available."

She squinted at the screen. "The plant is in Cape Breton, which is more than a skip and a jump from the shores of the Potomac."

"When will you learn to trust my Yankee ingenuity?" Paul said with a fake sigh.

While Gamay watched with a bemused smile, Paul picked up the phone and punched out a number. After a brief conversation, he hung up with a triumphant grin on his boyish face. "That was a pal in NUMA's travel department. There's a NUMA plane leaving for Boston in a few hours. They have two seats available. Maybe you can charm the pilot into an add-on to Cape Breton."

"It's worth a try," Gamay said, pushing the OFF button on her computer.

"What about your toadfish research?" Paul said.

Gamay replied with a bad imitation of a toad's croak. "What about the Java Trench?"

"It's been there for millions of years. I think it can wait a few more days."

His computer monitor went blank as well. Relieved that their boredom, at last, had come to an end, they raced each other to their office door.

10

THE MORNING GLOOM had burned off, and the Faroes were enjoying a rare moment of sunshine that revealed the splendor of the island scenery. The countryside seemed to be covered in bright-green billiard table baize. The rugged terrain was barren of trees, dotted by grass-roofed houses and an occasional church steeple, and laced by crooked stone walls and foot trails.

Austin drove the professor's Volvo along a twisting coastal road that offered inland views of distant mountains. Jagged gray out– croppings rose from the cold blue sea like huge, petrified whale fins. Birds swirled around the lofty vertical cliffs where the sea had sculpted the irregular shoreline.

Around midday, Austin emerged from a mountain tunnel and saw a doll-like village clustered on a gently sloping hill at the edge of a fjord. The serpentine road followed a series of descending switchbacks, dropping thousands of feet in a few miles. The Volvo's wheels skirted the edge of hairpin turns with no guardrails along the berm. Austin was happy when he reached the level road that ran be– tween the foam-flecked surf and the colorfully painted houses built on the slope of the hillside like spectators at an amphitheater.

A woman was planting flowers in front of a tiny church, whose grassy roof was surmounted by a short, rectangular steeple. Austin danced at his Faroese phrasebook and got out of the car.

He said: "Orsaa. Hvar er Gunnar Jepsen?" Excuse me, where could

I find Gunnar Jepsen?

She put her trowel down and came over. Austin saw that she was a handsome woman who could have been between fifty and sixty. Her silvery hair was tied in a bun, and she was tanned except for the sun blush on her high cheekbones. Her eyes were as gray as the nearby sea. A bright smile crossed her narrow face, and she pointed toward a side road that led to the outskirts of town.

"Gott taaf" he said. Thank you.

"EingisJt?"

"No, I'm American."

"We don't see many Americans here in Skaalshavn," she said, speaking English with a Scandinavian lilt. "Welcome."

"I hope I'm not the last."

"Gunnar lives up there on the hill. Just follow that little road." She smiled again. "I hope you have a good visit."

Austin thanked her once more, got back in the car and followed a pair of gravel ruts for about a quarter of a mile. The road ended at a large grass-roofed house built of vertical, dark chocolate-colored planking. A pickup truck was parked in the drive. A hundred yards down the slope was a smaller twin of the main house. Austin climbed the porch stairs and knocked.

The man who answered the door was of medium height and slightly on the portly side. He had an apple-round face and cheeks, and thin strands of reddish-blond hair combed over his bald head. "Ja," he said with a pleasant smile.

"Mr. Jepsen?" Austin said. "My name is Kurt Austin. I'm a friend of Professor Jorgensen's."

"Mr. Austin. Come in." He pumped Kurt's hand like a used-car salesman greeting a prospect. Then he ushered him into a rustic liv– ing room. "Dr. Jorgensen phoned and said you were coming. It's a long drive from Torshavn," Jepsen said. "Would you like a drink?" "Not now, thanks. Maybe later."

Jepsen nodded and said, "You're here to do a little fishing?" "I've heard you can catch fish on dry land in the Faroes." "Not quite," Jepsen said with a grin, "but almost as good."

"I was doing some ship salvage work in Torshavn and thought fishing would be a good way to relax."

"Ship salvage? Austin." He swore in Faroese. "I should have known. You're the American who saved the Danish sailors. I saw it on the television. Miraculous! Wait 'til the people in the village learn I am entertaining a celebrity."

"I was hoping I wouldn't be bothered."

"Of course, but it will be impossible to keep your visit a secret from the townspeople."

"I met one of them outside the church. She seemed nice enough."

"That would be the minister's widow. She's the postmistress and head gossip. Everyone will know you're here by now."

"Is that the professor's cottage down the hill?"

"Yes," Jepsen said, removing a key ring from a nail in the wall. "Come, I'll show you." Austin got his duffel from the car. As they walked down the hard-packed path, Jepsen said, "You're a good friend of Dr. Jorgensen?"

"I met him a few years ago. His reputation as a fish scientist is world-known."

"Yes, I know. I was very honored to have him here. Now you."

They stopped in front of the cottage, whose porch offered a view of the harbor, where a picturesque fleet of fishing boats was anchored.

"Are you a fisherman, Mr. Jepsen?"

"In a little place like this, you survive by doing many things. I rent out my cottage. My expenses aren't great."

They climbed onto the cottage porch and went inside. The inte– rior was basically one room with a single bed, bathroom, kitchen area, a small table and a couple of chairs, but it looked comfortable.

Jepsen said, "There's fishing gear in the closet. Let me know if you need a guide for fishing or hiking. My roots go back to the Vikings, and no one knows this place better."

"Thanks for your offer, but I've been around a lot of people lately. I'd like to spend some time on my own. I understand that a boat goes with the cottage."

"Third one from the end of the pier," Jepsen said. "A double– ender. The keys are in it."

"Thank you for your help. If you'll excuse me, I'd like to unpack, then I'll go into the village and stretch my legs," Austin said.

Jepsen told Austin to let him know if he needed anything. "Dress warm," he said as he went out the door. "The weather changes quickly around here."

Heeding Jepsen's advice, Austin pulled a windbreaker over his sweater. He went outside and stood on the cottage porch, sucking in the cool air. The land sloped gradually down to the sea. From his van– tage, he had a clear view of the harbor, the fish pier and the boats. He walked back up the path to the Volvo and drove into the village.

Austin's first stop was the bustling fish pier, where a procession of trawlers unloaded their catches under an umbrella of squalling seabirds. He found the boat tied up as Jepsen had described. It was a well-built wooden inboard about twenty feet long, turned up dory– fashion at both ends. He checked the motor and found it relatively clean and new. The key was in the ignition, as Jepsen had said. Austin started the engine and listened to it for a few minutes. Satisfied that it was running smoothly, he switched it off and headed back to his car. On the way, he encountered the minister's widow coming out of a loading bay.

"Hallo, American," she said with a friendly grin. "Did you find Gunnar?"

"Yes, thank you."

She was holding a fish wrapped in newspaper. "I came down here to get some supper. My name is Pia Knutsen."

They shook hands. Pia's grip was warm and firm. "Nice to meet you. I'm Kurt Austin. I've been enjoying the sights.

Skaalshavn is a beautiful village. I've been wondering what the name means in English."

"You are talking to the unofficial village historian. Skaalshavn means 'Skull Harbor.' "

Austin glanced out at the water. "Is the bay shaped like a skull?" "Oh no. It goes way back. The Vikings discovered skulls in some caves when they founded the settlement." "People were here before the Vikings?"

"Irish monks, perhaps, or maybe even earlier. The caves were on the other side of the headland at what was the original harbor for the old whaling station. It became too small as fishing grew, so the fish– ermen moved their boats and settled here."

"I'd like to do some hiking. Would you recommend any routes where I can get a good view of the town and its surroundings?" "From the bird cliffs, you can see for miles. Take that path behind the village," she said, pointing. "You will go through the moors by some beautiful waterfalls and streams, past a big lake. The trail climbs sharply after you pass the old farm ruins, and you will be at the cliffs. Don't go too close to the edge, especially if it's foggy, un– less you have wings. The ledges are nearly five hundred meters tall. Follow the cairns back and keep them on your left. The trail is steep and goes down fast. Don't walk too close to the edge along the sea, because sometimes the waves crash over the rocks and can catch you.

"I'll be careful." "One more thing. Dress warm. The weather changes quickly sometimes."

"Gunnar gave me the same advice. He seems quite knowledge– able. Is he a native?"

"Gunnar would like people to think he goes back to Erik the Red," she sniffed. "He's from Copenhagen. Moved into the village a year or two ago."

"Do you know him well?"

"Oh, yes," she said, with a roll of her lovely eyes. "Gunnar tried to get me into his bed, but I'm not that hard up."

Pia was a good-looking woman, and Austin wasn't surprised at Jepsen's attempt; but he hadn't driven all this way to tune in on the local romances. "I heard there was a fish operation of some sort up the coast."

"Yes, you'll see it from the cliffs. Ugly concrete and metal build– ings. The harbor is full of their fish cages. They raise fish there and ship it out. The local fishermen don't like it. The fishing around the old harbor has gone bad. No one from town works there. Not even

Gunnar anymore."

"He worked at the fish farm?"

"In the beginning. Something to do with construction. He used his money to buy his houses and lives off the rentals."

"Do you get many visitors here?" Austin was watching a sleek blue yacht coming into the harbor.

"Bird-watchers and fishermen." She followed Austin's eyes. "Like those men in that pretty boat. It's owned by a rich Spaniard, I hear. They say he came all the way from Spain for the fishing." Austin turned back to Pia. "You speak English very well." "We learn it in the schools along with Danish. And my husband and I spent some time in England when we were first married. I don't get much chance to speak it." She lifted the fish under Austin's nose and said, "Would you like to come to my house for dinner? I could practice my English."

"It wouldn't be too much trouble?"

"No, no. Come by after your walk. My house is behind the church."

They agreed to meet in a few hours, and Austin drove to the trail– head. The gravel path climbed gradually through rolling moors splashed with wildflowers, and passed near a small lake, almost per– fectly round, that looked as if it were made of cold crystal. About a mile from the lake, he came upon the ruins of an old farm and an an– cient graveyard.

The path grew steeper and less visible. As Pia advised, he followed the carefully piled heaps of rock that marked the way. He could see flocks of sheep so far away that they looked like bits of lint. Tower– ing in the distance were layered mountains with cascading wedding– veil waterfalls.

The trail led to the cliffs, where hundreds ofseabirds filled the air, balancing delicately on updrafts of air. Tall sea stacks soared from the bay, their flat summits wreathed in fog. Austin chewed on a Power– Bar and thought that the Faroes must be the most otherworldly place on the planet.

He kept on going until he stood atop a ridge that gave him a panoramic view of the serrated coast. A rounded headland separated Skaalshavn from a smaller inlet. Clustered along the shore of the old harbor were dozens of neatly arranged buildings. As he surveyed the scene below, he felt a drop of rain on his cheek. Dark billowing clouds were rolling in from the layered mountains to obliterate the sun. He started down from the exposed ridge. Even with switch– backs easing the vertical drop, the going was hard on the steep trail, and he had to move slowly until the ground leveled out again. As he approached sea level, the heavens opened up. He kept heading to– ward the lights of the town, and before long he was at his car.

Pia took one look at the drenched and bedraggled figure at her door and shook her head.

"You look like you've crawled out of the sea." She pulled Austin in by the sleeve and ordered him to go into the bathroom and strip. Austin was too wet to protest. While he was undressing, she cracked the door open and tossed in a towel and dry clothes.

"I was sure my husband's clothes would fit," she said approvingly, when Austin ventured out in the shirt and pants. "He was a big man like you."

While Pia set the table, Austin spread his clothes out next to a wood stove, then stood practically on top of it, basking in the heat, until she informed him that dinner was ready.

The baked fresh cod melted in his mouth. They washed dinner down with a light homemade white wine. Dessert was a sweet raisin pudding. Over their meal, she talked about her life in the Faroes, and Austin told her a little about his NUMA work. She was fascinated by his travels to exotic places for his NUMA assignments.

"I forgot to ask, did you have a good walk, even with the rain?" Pia said as she cleared the dishes.

"I climbed to the top of the cliffs. The views were incredible. I saw the fish farm you mentioned. Do they allow visitors?"

"Oh no/9 Pia replied, with a shake other head. "They don't let anyone in. Like I said before, none of the village men work there. There's a road along the shore that they used when they were build– ing, but it's blocked off with a high fence. Everything comes and goes by sea. They say it's like a separate town out there."

"Sounds interesting. Too bad no one can get in."

Pia refilled Austin's glass and gave him a sly look. "I could get in in a minute if I wanted to, through the Mermaid's Gate."

He shook his head, unsure he had heard her correctly. "The Mer– maid's Gate?"

"That's what my father used to call the natural arch at the edge of the old harbor. He used to take me out sometimes in his boat, and we'd go there. He never took me in. It's dangerous because of the cur– rents and rocks. Some men have drowned trying to go through the gate, so the fishermen stay away. They say it's haunted by the souls of the dead. You can hear them moaning, but it's only the way the wind blows through the caves."

"It sounds as if your father wasn't afraid of ghosts." "He wasn't afraid of any thing."

"What do these caves have to do with the fish farm?" "It's a way to go in. One cave joins others that lead to the old har– bor. My father said there are paintings on the walls. Wait, I'll show you.

She went to a bookcase and took out an old family album. Tucked between pages of photos was a sheet of paper, which she unfolded and spread on the table. Drawn on the paper were rough sketches of bison and deer. More interesting to Austin were depictions of long graceful boats powered by sail and oar.

"These are very old drawings," Austin said, although he was un– able to place them in time. "Did your father show them to anyone else?"

"Not outside the family. He wanted the caves kept a secret be– cause he was afraid they would get ruined if people knew about them."

"Then the caves can't be entered from the land side?"

"There was a way, but it was blocked with boulders. My father said it would be no problem to move them. He wanted to get some sci– entists in from the university so it would be done right, but he died in a storm."

I'm sorry.

Pia smiled. "Like I said, he wasn't afraid of anything. Anyhow, after he died, my mother moved the family away to live with rela– tives. I came back here with my husband. I was too busy raising kids to worry about the caves. Then the fish company bought the land and the old whaling station, and no one could get out there."

"Are there more pictures?"

She shook her head. "Poppa tried to make a map of the caves, but I don't know what happened to it. He said the people who made the paintings were smart. They used pictures offish and birds like signs. As long as you follow the right fish, you won't get lost. Some of the caves lead to blind alleys."

They talked into the night. Austin finally looked at his watch and said that he had to go. Pia wouldn't let him leave until he agreed to return for dinner the next evening. He drove along the deserted road in the dusky light that passes for night in northern climes.

A light was on at the main house, but he saw no sign ofJepsen, and guessed he had gone to bed. The rain had ended. He went out on the porch and stood there awhile, looking down on the quiet village and harbor, then went back inside the cottage and got ready to sack out. Although the remote village seemed peaceful, he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that Skaalshavn was a place of dark secrets. Before he turned in, he made sure that the door and windows were locked.

11

PAUL TROUT THREADED the wide-beamed Humvee through the heavy Washington traffic like a runner going for a touchdown at the Super Bowl. Although he and Gamay often took the Hummer on four-wheeling family trips in the Virginia country– side, nothing they encountered off-road could compare with the chal– lenges of driving in the nation's capital. They made good time, though, as Gamay called out openings in the traffic and Paul spun the wheel over without looking. Their ability to work together like a well-oiled machine had been crucial on countless NUMA assign– ments and was a tribute to the acumen of Admiral Sandecker, who had hired them together.

Paul turned down a narrow Georgetown street and tucked the Humvee into the parking space behind their brick town house, and they bolted for the door. Minutes later, they were jumping into a taxi, their hastily packed overnight bags in hand. The NUMA exec– utive jet was waiting at the airport with its engines warming up. The pilot, who was flying a contingent of scientists to Boston, knew the Trouts from past missions with the Special Assignments Team. She had gotten the okay from NUMA to add the extra leg to her trip and filed a new flight plan.

After dropping off the scientists at Logan Airport, the plane con– tinued up the Atlantic coast. With a cruising speed of nearly five hundred miles an hour, the Cessna Citation had the Trouts in Hali– fax, Nova Scoria, in time for a late dinner. They stayed overnight at a hotel near the airport and caught an Air Canada flight to Cape Breton early the next morning, then rented a car at the Sydney air– port and drove out of the city up the rocky coast to look for the pro– cessing plant that Oceanus had acquired. Gamay had picked up a travel guide at the airport. The travel writer who'd written the sec– tion describing this part of the remote coast must have been desper– ate, because he had listed the fish-processing plant as a tourist attraction.

After not seeing any signs of civilization for many miles, they came upon a combination general store, coffee shop and service station. Gamay, who was taking her turn at the wheel, pulled alongside the battered pickup trucks lined up in front of the ramshackle false-front building.

Paul looked up from the map he was studying. "Charming, but we've got another few miles before we get to the center of town."

"We have to stop for gas anyhow," Gamay said, tapping the fuel gauge. "While you pump the pump, I'll pump the locals for gossip."

Tucking the guidebook under her arm, Gamay stepped over the mangy black Labrador retriever stretched out in a deathlike sleep on the rickety front porch and pushed the door open. Her nostrils were greeted by a pleasant fragrance of pipe tobacco, bacon and coffee. The store, which occupied one half of the room, was crammed with every sort of item, from beef jerky to rifle ammunition. The coffee shop took up the other side of the store.

A dozen or so men and women sat at round Formica-and-chrome tables. All eyes turned to Gamay. At five-ten and a hundred-thirty– five pounds, Gamay's slim-hipped figure and unusual red hair would have attracted attention at a Malibu beach party. The curious stares followed her every move as she poured two plastic cups full of cof– fee from a self-service dispenser.

Gamay went to pay, and the plump young woman at the cash reg– ister greeted her with a friendly smile. "Passing through?" she said, as if she couldn't imagine any traveler staying in town longer than it took to fill a coffee cup.

Gamay nodded. "My husband and I are taking a drive along the coast."

"Don't blame you for not staying," the woman said with resigna– tion. "Not much to see around here."

Despite her striking sophistication, Gamay's midwestern roots had given her a down-home earthiness that was hard to resist. "We think it's beautiful country," she said, with an engaging smile. "We'd stay longer if we had time." She opened the guidebook to the folded-over page. "It says here that there's a pretty little fishing harbor and a fish– processing plant nearby."

"It does?" the cashier said with disbelief.

The other people in the room had been listening to every word. A spindly white-haired woman cackled like a hen. "Fishing ain't what it used to be. Plant sold out. Some big outfit bought the business. Fired all the folks working there. Nobody knows what they're doing. People who work there never come into town. Sometimes we see the Eskimos driving around in their big black trucks."

Gamay glanced into the guidebook, looking for something she missed. "Did you say Eskimos•? I didn't think we were that far north."

Her innocent question started a table debate. Some of the locals contended that Eskimos guarded the plant. Others said that the men driving the SUVs were Indians or maybe Mongolians. Gamay won– dered if she had stumbled into the local insane asylum, a thought that was reinforced when the cashier mumbled something about "aliens." "Aliens?" Gamay said.

The cashier blinked through thick, round-framed glasses, her eyes growing wider. "It's like that secret UFO place in the States, Area Fifty-one, like they show on The X-Files."

"I seen a UFO once when I was hunting near the old plant," in– terjected a man who could have been a hundred years old. "Big sil– ver thing all lit up."

"Hell, Joe," said the skinny woman, "I've seen you so lit up you've probably seen purple elephants."

"Yup," the man said with a gap-toothed grin. "Seen them, too." The restaurant filled with laughter.

Gamay smiled sweetly and said to the cashier, "We'd love to tell our friends back home that we saw a UFO base. Is it far from here?"

"Maybe twenty miles," the cashier said. She gave Gamay directions to the plant. Gamay thanked the young woman, put a ten-dollar bill in the empty tip jar, scooped up the coffees and headed out the door.

Paul was leaning against the car, his arms folded across his chest. He took the coffee she offered him. "Any luck?"

Gamay glanced back at the store. "I'm not sure. I seem to have run into the cast of Twin Pea/y. In the last few minutes, I've learned that this part of the world is home to Eskimos who drive big black SUVs, a UFO base and purple elephants."

"That explains it," he said with mock seriousness. "While you

were inside, a bunch of big critters the color of plums came thun– dering by here."

"After what I heard, I'm not surprised," she said, slipping behind the wheel.

"Think the locals were having a little fun at the expense of a tourist?" Paul said, getting into the passenger side.

"I'll let you know after we find big silver things around Area Fifty-one." Seeing the quizzical expression on her husband's face, she laughed and said, "I'll explain on the way."

They drove past the turnoff that led to the town center and har– bor, into an area of heavy pine forest. Even with the cashier's de– tailed directions, which included every stump and stone for miles, they almost missed the turnoff. There was no sign marking the en– trance. Only the hard-packed ruts showing fairly recent use distin– guished the way from any of the other fire roads that cut into the thick woods.

About a half mile from the main road, they pulled over. The cashier had advised Gamay to park at a clearing near a big glacial boulder and to walk through the woods. A few townspeople who had driven close to the plant's gates had been intercepted and rudely turned away. The Eskimos or whatever they were probably had hid– den cameras.

Gamay and Paul left the car and made their way through the woods parallel to the road for about an eighth of a mile, until they could see the sun glinting off a high chain-link fence. A black cable ran along the top of the fence, indicating that the razor wire was electrified. No cameras were visible, although it was possible that they were disguised.

"What now?" Gamay said.

"We can fish or cut bait," Paul replied.

"I never liked cutting bait."

"Me, neither. Let's fish."

Paul stepped out of the woods into the cleared grassy swath around the fence. His sharp eye noticed a thin, almost-invisible wire at ankle height. He pointed to the ground. Trip wire. He snapped a dead branch off a nearby tree and dropped it on the wire, then he slipped back into the woods. He and Gamay flattened out belly-first on the pine needle carpeting.

Soon they heard the sound of a motor, and a black SUV lumbered to a stop on the other side of the fence. The door opened, and fierce– looking pure white Samoyeds as big as lions lunged out and ran up to the fence. The snuffling dogs were followed a moment later by a swarthy, round-faced guard in a black uniform. He cradled a leveled assault rifle in his hands.

While the dogs dashed back and forth along the fence, the guard suspiciously eyed the woods. He saw the branch lying on the trip wire. In an unintelligible language, he mumbled into a hand radio, then he moved on. The dogs may have sensed the two human beings in the woods. They growled and stood stiff-legged, staring at the trees that hid the Trouts. The guard yelled at them, and they jumped back into the SUV. Then he drove off.

"Not bad time," Paul said, checking his watch. "Ninety seconds." "Maybe it's time we got out of here," Gamay said. "They'll be sending someone to clear away that branch."

The Trouts melted back into the woods. Walking and trotting, they returned to their rental car. Minutes later, they were on the main road.

Gamay shook her head in wonderment. "That guard, did he look like an Eskimo to you?"

"Yeah, kinda, I guess. Never ran into many Eskimos back on old Cape Cod."

"What's an Eskimo doing this far south, selling Eskimo Pies?"

"The only thing that guy and his puppy dogs were selling was a quick trip to the morgue. Let's see what's going on in the big city."

Gamay nodded, and a few minutes later she was taking the turnoff that led to town. The village was hardly quaint, and she could see why it was only a footnote in the travel guide. The houses were pro– tected against the weather by asphalt shingles of drab green and faded maroon, and the roofs were covered with aluminum to allow the snow to slide off. There were few people or cars around. Some of the shops in the minuscule business section posted signs that said they were closed until further notice, and the town had an abandoned look. The harbor was picturesque, as the tour book said, but it was empty of boats, adding to the town's forlorn aspect.

The fish pier was deserted except for a ragged flock of sleeping gulls. Gamay spotted a restaurant/bar neon sign in a small square building overlooking the harbor. Paul suggested that she grab a table and order him fish and chips while he meandered around and tried to find someone who could tell him about the Oceanus plant.