"Is he Russian too?"
"Yeah, think so." There was a riffling of paper and a tuneless whistle, and then Nick said, "Professor B. V. Stanovnik of the Hydro-Meteoro-logical Service, Academy of Sciences of the USSR, Moscow.' Perhaps Stanovnik and the guy we found were colleagues."
Chase gnawed at his thumbnail, trying to make the connection between the two of them. The Hydro-Meteorological Service was certainly in the right area. Oceans. Climate. But who was Stanovnik? More to the point, what was he? Climatologist? Oceanographer?
"Is Stanovnik giving a paper at the conference?" he asked.
"He's on the list of speakers, but it doesn't say what subject or give the title of his paper." Nick chuckled over the line. "Do you want me to ask him what he knows about the absorption of carbon dioxide in seawater? That was it, wasn't it?"
"Yes, that was it," Chase said slowly. "But you'd be better off asking him what he doesn't know about it. If the Russian was carrying out research, then presumably it was to fill in a blank somewhere--something the Hydro-Meteorological Service was keen to find out. That's assuming there's a link between them, which is unlikely."
Nick said he'd keep it in mind, that he was sorry Chase couldn't drag himself away, and they said their good-byes.
The conversation ran around his head while he showered, almost absentmindedly hunting for the soap, which Angie always managed to misplace, even in the damned shower. Women of certain breeding, he had come to learn, were congenital slatterns, as if expecting as of right that a posse of servants was there to scurry after them, clearing up, tidying away.
At idle moments he had pondered the unsolved antarctic "mystery." Nothing had ever appeared in the newspapers about the man who had died of a brain hemorrhage, and why should there? It was one of those odd incidents you witnessed or heard about, you puzzled over for a while, and then forgot. But for Nick bringing it up, he most likely wouldn't have brought it to mind again, except perhaps as a curious incident to enliven a dull conversation down at the local pub.
Stan-ov-nik. Is that what he'd been trying to say? Stan or Nick. Stan-ov-nik. Stan or Nick. Stanovnik. Well . . . yes. Stan or--
"What the hell are you mumbling about in there?"
Angie's face appeared around the edge of the frosted shower screen, hair damp and tousled from being rubbed. Through the steam he could see the soft swell of her breasts at the bathrobe's overlapping V neck.
"Remember what I said about the walrus?"
"Yes?"
"Look at this." He reached out and fastened on her wrist.
"No!"
"No?" Drawing her in.
"My robe--it'll get wet."
"Then take it off."
"Oh, Gavin, we'll be late!"
"Not the way the walrus does it."
"How's that?"
"Like this."
In the first hour Chase had three stiff whiskeys, lost sight of Angie, nodded distantly at three or four people, and wandered in a mellow haze from room to room of the large old house. Everything was stripped down to the bare wood. Their host had greeted them at the door attired in a plum-colored velvet jacket, faded denims, and fashionably scuffed training shoes. (Adidas--he knew it!) He couldn't have looked less like a Clydeside spot-welder if he'd tried, Chase thought uncharitably. And the little squirt--he was under five feet six--had kissed Angie not on the cheek but on the lips, with a warmth that didn't befit an employer-employee relationship. It prompted him to wonder whether she'd been unfaithful while he was away, which led to the speculation of how he, Chase, might have behaved had the circumstances been reversed. He'd have been tempted, but would he have fallen? He didn't honestly know.
Content with the Scotch for company, Chase stood in the lee of a monstrous growth of dark-green shrubbery that sprouted from a Victorian urn. What was it about these people he didn't like? He felt uncomfortable, the stranger-in-a-strange-land syndrome. They inhabited a world he didn't understand, glossy and slick, "trendy" in the worst possible meaning of the word. As if--this was the implication, he sensed--what they were involved in mattered, was at the center of the stage, while everyone else didn't matter and was thus relegated to shadowy anonymity.
Steady, he told himself. Your paranoia is showing. He guzzled the Scotch and tried to remain inconspicuous.
"You're Angie's man," said a small dark-haired girl, appearing at his elbow. Obviously not inconspicuous enough.
Chase nodded and looked down into large brown eyes ringed with spiky black lashes. She wore an embroidered sleeveless jacket over a loose peasant dress with a revealing neckline. He could see where her tan ended. Thin gold bracelets clinked on her arms.
"Dr. Chase, the intrepid Arctic explorer."
"Right bloke, wrong continent," Chase replied.
The girl bit her lip in mock horror. "I do beg your pardon. Geography was never my best subject. That's at the bottom, isn't it?"
"Yes. Or the arse-end as we Arctic explorers might say."
The girl's head fell back and she laughed, showing small, sharp, white teeth. Chase tried not to stare at her trembling bosom. "You know my name. What's yours?"
The girl said she was called Jill, touched his glass with hers, and drank.
"Swell party," he said benignly, grimacing with pleasure as the whiskey warmed his gut. Angie was right. For three months he'd been completely absorbed in his work and it was high time he got smashed. The mood beckoned to him like a seductive lover.
"You really think so?"
"Definitely. Plenty of excellent free Scotch and attractive company."
"I thought Arctic explorers were supposed to be shy."
"That wasn't a proposition."
"Wasn't it? Oh, what a pity." She pouted coquettishly and he wasn't sure whether she was being serious or pulling his leg. "You fit the description, anyway. My illusions haven't been shattered."
"What description?" Chase said, having lost the drift.
"For Arctic explorers. Tall, dark, and handsome."
Was she being serious?
"I suppose Glaswegian spot-welders are short, fat, and hairy," he said.
"What?"
"Private joke. You work in television, I suppose."
"I'm a PA. Production assistant."
Chase had only a vague idea what that was.
Jill explained. "I do the running around, getting everything organized. We move about a lot, news, current affairs, documentaries, local programs. PAs are the gofers of the television industry. Without us it would collapse."
Chase had never thought of television as an industry. Its product seemed so ephemeral. In one eye and out the other.
"What do you do when you're not exploring?" she asked him.
"I'm in the marine biology department at the university. At the moment I'm classifying some specimens I brought back from the Antarctic. Microscopic plant life." Chase waved his hand dismissively. "Not very interesting to the layman, I'm afraid. Or the laywoman, for that matter."
"Plankton?" Jill said. She gave him a look. "I may get my continents mixed up, but I'm not completely stupid."
"Well, 'plankton' is a general term for all floating plant and animal life in the seas and rivers. My speciality is Halosphaera, Phaeocystis, silicoflagellates, and Bacillariophyceae. " That'd teach her to be such a smart ass.
But apparently that hadn't dampened her interest, for she asked him to tell her more about them, which Chase found difficult. The alcohol didn't help. To simplify it, he said, "They form the basic diet for most fish--phytoplankton, that is, the plant forms. If you look at a pond you'll see the bottom carpeted with the stuff, with millions of tiny silver bubbles clinging to it. That's oxygen, which phytoplankton releases after splitting water into hydrogen and oxygen. They're a very primitive organism, been around for, oh, two thousand million years or more. But for the phytoplankton we wouldn't be having this conversation."