Sally said, "I'm leaving for Miami in the morning, and I don't know which hotel I'll be staying in, so-"
"First thing, then. I'll call you when I get up." Ford was writing: "10,250 x 4,400 x 5 = 225,500,000.
More than 200 million cubic feet of water! Or perhaps he should set up the model in pounds: pounds of water to pounds of filtering animals it would take to have an impact on the bay's turbidity. Base the model on that.
"I thought we ought to at least say good-bye!"
"You're absolutely right," Ford said. "Oh-wait until you see what I've been doing here. It's amazing. That's what I want to tell you about."
"If you can find the time."
"First thing in the morning."
"Good-bye, then!"
Ford said, "Thanks for understanding," then hung up the phone, still writing as he walked back to the lab.
Four A.M., and Ford thought, Well, I ought to try and get a little sleep before I do any more. I'm starting to make mistakes.
The lab was a litter of papers and books lying open, places marked with clips. Everything Ford had on water, salt and fresh; everything he could find in his own little library. Scientific journals, university bulletins, government publications on water ac-cessment and environmental law-by guessing lag time, scientific interest in water pollution could be traced through legislation passed to protect it. Plus, he would certainly have to apply for special permits to plant sea mobiles on any expanded bases. The regulations were something he would have to know about.
So he had spent the night reading and making notes. Took time out to do the tank procedure one more time-the precision of it, the inexorable efficiency, delighted him.
Tomlinson would appreciate this. When the hell's he getting back!
In one of the journals, Ford had read: "In the South Florida acquifer, from which water streams sometimes percolate upward, under pressure, to create artesian wells, groundwater attains ages of hundreds to thousands of years. Research by Hanshaw and Back suggest that an armoring of the limestone surface by inorganic ionic species, or by organic substances, may produce a state of pseudoequilibrium between crystal surfaces and solution."
Which was of no interest in his own work, but it was exactly that kind of datum bit that Tomlinson could take and weave into a whole monologue on the timelessness of time, the elemental symmetry of life. Water held in the veins of the earth, existing through eons in its own dark space, until sumped skyward by nature or the ingenuity of man.
And what about the man-made additions, such as benzene and pesticides?
Tomlinson would probably make that fit neatly into his own example of the unceasing harmony of existence. Ford could just hear him: "We manufacture, then cast off emotional pollutants every day, man! That doesn't mean we're flawed!"
Ford smiled, then considered his lab one last time before flicking off the lights. He hated to leave the place in such a mess-but he'd get back to work right after his morning run, so it was almost the same as working right through. Even so, the disorderliness of the lab created an uneasiness in him, which he stood taking in for long seconds… then he decided that it was less trouble to neaten up than to worry about it, so it was nearly 5:00 A.M. when he finally lay down on his cot.
More than four hours later, Ford awoke with a start, aware that on some level of dream or consciousness, his brain had arrived at a solution to something… what?
He sat up groggily and threw the sheet back.
Sunlight glared through the windows. Overhead, the ceiling fan labored, making a whispered whap-whap-whap.
What the hell had he been dreaming about? Something to do with his work… something about water. His subconscious had been wrestling with some problem, exploring ways to best some obstacle… and finally had succeeded. Nothing else could account for the sense of triumph that had awakened him. But a solution to what?
Ford stood, preoccupied, scanning the memory tracers, willing the data to return. He made the cot up military fashion, stretching the gray-and-blue-banded navy-issue blanket tight enough to bounce a quarter on.
"Something to do with water," he said aloud.
Beside the cot was the brass alarm clock. He checked the time against his own watch, startled that he had slept so late. Which caused him to think of his promise to Sally Carmel, and he immediately went to the phone and dialed.
No answer.
"She's probably already left for Miami. The job interview." Talking to himself.
So she'd be back late that night. No… she had mentioned a hotel, so she'd be back the next day, Tuesday. Or would she? Had she said?
Ford thought, Well, she'll call. Or I can leave a note at her house when I go to Mango for the public hearing…
Which was when he remembered that it was now Monday; the meeting would start in-what?-less than two hours.
Christ!
Ford began to hustle around, making coffee, collecting his papers
… then stopped, transfixed. It was all coming back to him, the dreamy workings of his own subconscious. It had nothing to do with his own work, but it was about water. Fresh water. Artesian wells. Contaminants. And the solution…
It was both a revelation and a disappointment. In that instant, Ford knew how to prevent the state from taking Tucker Gatrell's property.
SIXTEEN
Monday just before noon, Tuck gave the three representatives of the Florida Park Acquisitions Board their choice. "I got your table and chairs out there, all set up. But you want to sit in the sun? Or the shade of that big mango tree?"
Tuck stood on his porch and let them make their own decision, smiling at the two women and the man, but talking to the man because he was the one acting as if he was running the show. Introduced himself as "Mr. Londecker," as if he and Tuck would never be on a first-name basis, so there was no reason for Tuck to know any more. Snooty-acting kid, maybe thirty years old, already looking hot and put out in his blue suit and black shoes when he stepped out of the van that had probably brought them from the airport. White state-owned van with yellow plates and the Great Seal of Florida stenciled on the door.
The kid said, "In the shade, of course. As long as we have to be outside." Businesslike, but with a tone to his voice probably meant to put Tuck right in his place.
Tuck said, "The shade. You sure?"
"Sit in the heat, or sit in the shade-that's not much of a decision for most people. What I don't understand is, why is everything here so sandy?"
Meaning the film of cinnamon-colored dust that, in just the last day, had settled upon trees, trucks, houses, and boats, as if it had descended, like rain, from the sky. It reminded Tuck of back in the early 1960s when, for the first time, they got what the Glades farmers called yellow rain. Killed the crops and burned the feet off insects, it was that potent.
But all Tuck said was, "Must be all the traffic, people coming to buy water. You ever seen so many outta state license plates?"
Londecker gave the woman beside him a look; rolled his eyes a little, but made sure Tuck saw it, too. What Tuck mostly noticed was that he had been wrong about Londecker. Londecker wasn't the one in charge; the oldest of the two women was. The kid's kissy-butt attitude told him that, and the way the woman remained expressionless, showing she was important, letting everything come to her, then judging it.
Tuck grinned, displaying his missing teeth. "Shade it is!" But he was thinking, Which is exactly what you deserve, letting this sorry little shitheel do your thinking for you…
He waited until they had gone back to their air-conditioned van-Londecker and the two women hadn't shut the engine off since they'd arrived. Just sat there in the coolness with a couple of other people, secretaries, probably, waiting for the hearing to start. Then Tuck found a piece of rope and led Gator outside, talking to the dog as they walked down the mound toward the road: "Them ones in the van, you can bite them anytime. Just not today, that's all. They ever come back, though, I want you on your toes. Hey!" Tuck jerked at the leash. "You listening to me?"