"Why, are they that important?"
"You have to breathe, don't you?"
"That's where we get our oxygen from?"
Chase nodded. "There wasn't any around to begin with. Most people think it's always been a constituent of the atmosphere, but when the planet was formed the atmosphere was highly poisonous--to us, that is. Mainly hydrogen, ammonia, and methane. Then the early primitive forms of algae came along and started releasing oxygen, which eventually formed the ozone layer, protecting the early animal life from ultraviolet radiation. So it does two crucial jobs: gives us oxygen to breathe and prevents us from frying."
Jill looked thoughtful for a moment. "I always had the idea that the trees did that--gave us oxygen. You know, all this fuss about the rain forests in South America and Southeast Asia. They're destroying millions of acres and burning them, which apparently does something to the climate."
"That's true. All green plants take in carbon dioxide and give off oxygen, but the best estimates we have suggest that the phytoplankton in the oceans provides roughly seventy percent of the recycled oxygen.
Sure, the trees are important, but if we didn't have phytoplankton there wouldn't have been any trees in the first place."
"It isn't dull at all," Jill said reprovingly. "Why do you pretend it is?"
"Do I?" Chase shrugged. He swirled his whiskey, making the ice cubes clink. "I suppose it's because most people never give a second thought to the way the biosphere works. They just take it for granted. They don't understand that the whole bag of tricks depends on microscopic plant life, so when you start talking about it they just turn glassy-eyed and drop into a doze. You have to be a genius like David At-tenborough to make them see and understand."
"What about Sir Frederick Cole?"
"What about him?"
"You've heard of him, I take it?"
There was a gleam in her brown eyes and an underlying hint of mockery in her tone, as if it were his turn to be patronized. He chided himself for taking Jill at his own estimation--a shallow media person, all mouth and trousers--when clearly she had more up top.
"He was one of my lecturers at Cambridge. We used to call him 'Firebrand Fred.' "
"You actually know him then? He's coming into the studio next week to give a talk for a schools program. We're taping it next Wednesday afternoon and I'm the gofer."
"I should think he'd be rather good on the telly," Chase said, thinking about it. "Blunt northern humor, straight from the shoulder. An instant TV guru."
Jill laughed. "We've made him buy a new suit. He turned up at the office wearing a pullover with holes in it and the crotch of his trousers somewhere level with his kneecaps. If I hadn't met him at the station I don't think the doorman would have let him into the building. 'Firebrand Fred,' " she said, giggling. "That suits him. I'll call him that next time I see him."
"Feel free," Chase said darkly, "but don't mention my name. What's he going to be talking about?"
"It's one of a series of programs dealing with different aspects of aquatic life in English lakes and rivers. How plants and animals adapt to their particular environments. I wasn't involved in the filming, just the linking sequences in the studio."
It occurred to Chase that if he wanted to pick someone's brains about C02 absorption in seawater, he couldn't do better than Sir Fred.
He'd earned his knighthood for impressive research work in the sixties and early seventies and was still regarded as one of the top three people in the field, even though he'd given up the lab bench for the lecture platform.
"Would it be possible to meet him while he's here?"
"Yes, I don't see why not." Jill gave a slow, lingering wink. "You could meet me at the same time. Why not come to the studio on Wednesday? I'm sure Firebrand would be delighted to meet one of his old students."
"What time?"
"He'll be arriving about one and will probably have lunch in the canteen. We're in the studio at two-thirty and we'll be through by four or soon after. After would be better, I think. He'll be fidgeting with notes and things before the recording."
"Late afternoon suits me better too," Chase said.
"What is it, something to do with your work? Or a reunion?"
"More of a general problem really." Chase stroked his jaw. "A small matter of marine chemistry."
Jill pointed at his empty glass. "That looks like a small matter of alcohol deficiency. Can I get you another?"
Chase thanked her in advance and gave up his glass. Angie strolled up, her long hollow cheeks flushed, arms linked with Archie Grieve. He wondered again about her fidelity, or lack of it. Or was he being provincial and boorish? He suspected that Jill had been making gentle fun of him and was surprised to find that he rather enjoyed it.
"I'm just about to get Gavin some more of our excellent Scotch," Jill said, kissing Archie on the cheek. "Won't be a minute." She gave Chase an amused glance over her shoulder and went off.
Chase smiled ruefully. Had she got the dig about Glaswegian spot-welders? He looked at Angie, still hanging on Archie's arm, rather unsteadily, and at the drink in her hand, which fuzzed and sparkled.
"What's that?"
"Champers, darling!" Angie exclaimed. "Like some?"
Chase shook his head, feeling a little woozy himself. Noticing how the reflected sparkle made tiny dancing highlights on the underside of her chin. Remembering too that what gave champagne its fizz were bubbles of carbon dioxide suddenly released into the atmosphere.
The blond secretary with the silver claws reacted visibly when he appeared in front of her desk. Most of the men who passed through her office on their way to see the deputy director of the World Oceano-graphic Data Center were conservatively dressed in dark business suits, crisp shirts, and polished shoes. A few of the younger ones, it was true, wore open-necked shirts, sports jackets, and slacks, but here was somebody in his sixties who looked for all the world like a beachcomber down on his luck.
She half-rose in alarm, appraising with distaste the dingy crumpled T-shirt under the cord jacket with torn pockets whose peculiar shade of green might almost be mildew (she looked closely and saw that it was mildew), the creased, dirty-white twill trousers with ragged bottoms, the sneakers without laces, which might have been, many moons ago, white. And no socks!
Quite stunned by this apparition in the sanctity of her Washington office on an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday morning, Ms. Weston could only stare speechlessly, and it was left to Theo Detrick to introduce himself. In his soft guttural accent, a remnant of his German ancestry, he reminded her of his appointment with Dr. Parris Win-throp, the deputy director.
"You--you are Dr. Detrick?"
"That is correct," he said patiently.
Parris Winthrop was less taken aback than amused. "Theo, marvelous to see you!" he enthused, striding around his huge walnut desk to greet him. He towered over Theo, clad in a dark-gray suit with a matching tie flecked with pale yellow. "You look wonderful! But what the hell are you wearing?"
"What I always wear." Theo swapped his bulging briefcase with the broken clasp from right to left in order to shake hands. "Macy's haven't got around to opening a store on Canton Island as yet."
Winthrop patted his shoulder, genuine pleasure on his broad, ruddy, well-fed face, and indicated a leather armchair. "Like something to drink?"
"Coffee, black, will be fine."
"I was thinking of something with a bit more bite. Don't tell me you've become Spartan in everything," Winthrop said jovially.
"I like to keep a clear head during the day." Theo sat back holding the briefcase flat on his knees with both hands. It was worn and scratched and some of the stitching had come adrift.