“He didn’t say. Not yet. I’ll ask soon.”
“You’d better. You’re too smart to let it all slip away.”
He nodded again, but he was distracted by what was in his pocket, by what he’d somehow managed to forget he had.
Olivia yawned. Rubbed her eyes until they turned red.
“I think you’re right. I’ve been at this too long.”
“Listen, do you mind cleaning up without me? I have to . . . I forgot something in my room.”
“You? You forgot something?”
He chuckled. He hoped it was meant as a joke. Olivia did not seem to be laughing, but after the news of Markowitz and Linden, he wasn’t sure if either of them would laugh again.
“I’ll be back,” he said. “Make sure you hide the crate in the back room again before someone sees it.”
Olivia shrugged and turned back to what she’d been doing before he interrupted.
When Randal was sure he was alone, he pulled the half-sized notebook from his pocket and rolled it over in his fingers, feeling its grit and texture. Dr. Markowitz had written his name in large block letters across the cover in an act of either personal affirmation or pride, and inside his tiny cramped handwriting filled the pages edge-to-edge until they were near solid black, any free space filled with errant notes, diagrams, and calculations. The coil-bound book had weight, filled with secrets for Randal alone to discover. Olivia would find no solace inside, discover nothing about Linden she didn’t already know. At best, it would prolong the mourning and pain she had already suffered. In a sense, Randal was protecting her—keeping her focused on the immediate, and letting her past fall away.
Some of the pages of Markowitz’s notebook were wrinkled from exposure to sea air and water, creating soft haloes where letters should have been. Thankfully, little of importance had been affected, and Randal was still able to read the bulk of what Markowitz had written, albeit with a small amount of difficulty.
August 2nd
What a fantastic day to start the search! The sun was shining brightly, and there was a slight cool breeze coming in off the water. But it was a good breeze, a dry breeze, not strong enough to move a cloud were there even one in the sky. It was a day made for boating, and blissfully that’s exactly what I came to do!
Linden and I loaded the equipment on the
Oregon
for most of the morning. The grant money has been enough to rent the boat for a month, as well as to build the computer equipment we need on her. A month. It still seems so short a time, but we have a good idea where the Onkoul Vent is, so all we need to do is find it. Linden was in great spirits today, and I think that may have had an influence on my own bliss. He’s long been one of my most trusted doctoral students, and luckily for me a good enough boatman that between the two of us we can manage the ship on our own. I’m lucky to have him, and I think the greatest reward I could give him for his years of work is a co-author on the paper. It could change everything.
I must admit, I need this paper more now than ever. Certainly, my tenure at the university is assured, but the same can’t be said for my ability to continue exploring this strange world. I’m older than I’ve ever been—my legs no longer work the way they once did, the skin of my neck hangs lower than it ought. It came on so suddenly, age. So suddenly I wasn’t even paying attention when it arrived. I thought I had all the time in the world, but it’s clear now I was deluding myself. The folly of youth! I may be older, but alas not wiser. Nevertheless, I endeavor to make up for lost time, now before its too late. One last paper, one last exploration into the greatest mystery of our world—the depth of the ocean. Should I find the organisms I hope to find, a new paradigm will emerge.
I know they think me crazy, back at the university. Dean Coxwell, I suspect, would rather be rid of me altogether, but my tenure, thankfully, guarantees me some room to maneuver. I’ll be the first to admit it: my star has fallen, but in some ways this too is a blessing. Being left alone, I’m free to focus on those projects that interest me most, and what interests this old coot more than anything now is the future, and the multiplication of humanity. Much like the bacterium, man will spread until he consumes all his resources. The only place left to go is the stars.
Beneath the sea, on the vent of the earth, the extreme life forms live. If we can harness that power, that ability to thrive in previously unlivable conditions . . . It’s the key, I think, to life. To the future. We have only to tap the potential of this world so we might find another.
Oh, I mustn’t continue this! I’ll need some sleep to keep my wits about me on our maiden voyage tomorrow!
August 4th
I take a few moments to write in this journal because I have nothing else to show for the day, other than mindless driving. The rooms Linden and I rented are next door to each other in a small motel close to the marina. This way, we needn’t worry about travelling too long or far to reach the boat. Even a few minutes could prove vital.
Linden was still as jubilant as ever, thank heavens, but for all his optimism that drat hydrothermal vent still remained elusive. We have the coordinates charted and stuck to them to the letter, yet nothing emerged. At one point I was certain we were driving in circles, but Linden assured me that wasn’t the case.
“And even if it were true,” he reasoned, “how would you know? There’s no land anywhere within sight. Just water, water as far as the eye can see.”
“You are aware we have more instruments on this boat than eyes, aren’t you?” I chided him. “The GPS alone is worth four of your eyeballs.”
He laughed, then eased himself back on his chair. “Well, at least we have the birds to tell us we’re on the right track.”
He was right. The one sure way to find underwater hydrothermal vents is birds. The gulls are attracted to them. Sulfur, carbon dioxide, all sorts of other gases get released from an active site; mixing with the water above it forms a dead zone in the water. These are cleverly called “plumes” and are regularly noted when discovered. They show up on satellite imaging as large black masses, and no life can survive within one. Invariably, fish try to pass through and are instantly killed, poisoned to death by the deadly discharge from the vent. They float to the surface, easy pickings for the circling gulls. Except for the poison, of course.
The birds are indeed flying, and we can see them out farther in the water, circling like the scavengers they are. All we need to do is follow them. Perhaps tomorrow will yield better results.
August 13th
The fellow at the marina asked after the equipment we’d loaded the
Oregon
with. He was a crotchety old one, that’s for certain, with a weather-beaten face and a distinct lack of dental care. His mustache was yellowed from far too many cigarettes, and so long and thick at first I mistook it for a beard. He seemed quite bemused by our electronics, both impressed and mocking at once. I tried explaining a few of the machines to him—most specifically the sonar system—but he either didn’t understand English well enough or didn’t care. The only piece that struck his rheumy eye was the submersible.
“What’s that? Like a submarine?”
“Yes, quite.”
“What’re you looking for? You want to do some fishing?”
“In a manner of speaking. We’re looking for the Onkoul Vent, sort of like an underwater volcano.”
His face betrayed a moment of intense emotion, one that his crotchetiness buried before I could think to reassure him. In truth, I was taken aback.
“Those things—those
grietas
—those
vents
—they are all over. My father said to keep away. You should listen to him.”
“I’m sure he knew what he was talking about,” I said, struggling for a way to end the conversation, but the fellow wasn’t so easily dissuaded.
“
Sí,
they are very dangerous. You should stay away. Tell your friends, too.
Que son malo.
”
I nodded, and wished I knew how best to extricate myself.
I might still be on that dock had Linden not stepped in. I’m quite horrible with confrontation, but Linden seems to harbor no such foible. I suppose that’s the youth in him. When I was that young, I doubt it was much different for me. Linden stepped between us with the sort of presence only the broad-chested can manage.
“We need to get going, Doctor. We have a tight schedule.”
“Yes, of course, Linden. If you’ll excuse me, sir?”
The fellow nodded, but his eyes remained screwed fast to me.
We headed for the coordinates we’d been searching the day before, a good four hours out. As we travelled, I had Linden taking notes on his laptop and checking the diving equipment and submersible again to ensure they were ready to be deployed at short notice. Most of the trip was made in silence, the only sound the buzz of the engine. I must admit I rather enjoyed it: being out in the sun after so long under the fluorescents of the lab, the mist of the water on my face. It’s true what they say: the sea air really does wonders for the lungs. My breathing has never been better. In some ways, if we never find the Onkoul Vent, I wouldn’t mind. But of course Linden can think of nothing but his career.
“Thank you again for choosing me for the excursion, Dr. Markowitz. I know both Randal and Olivia would have been just as excited as I am to be here. I’m really excited about his project.” Linden had finished his prep and had joined me at the wheel. “I just wanted you to understand that.”
I waved him off.
“You deserve to be here, Linden. I wouldn’t have brought you otherwise.”
He smiled broadly. I must admit it felt good to be needed.
August 18th
A disastrous day! I’m still shaking and, for a while, I was worried Linden would not make it. Our morning began as usual, with the fellow from the marina watching Linden and me load the boat and test the equipment and submersible. He didn’t say anything this time, but it was clear we were wearing out more and more of our welcome. Linden laughed about it as we drove out, but it didn’t seem as funny to me.
We reached the coordinates again, and though the GPS said we were exactly where we’d anchored the last time, still the water looked different to me. I know that’s a strange thing to say—water never looks the same twice, especially without land to mark it—but there was something. The sky perhaps wasn’t as clear as it ought to have been, or the color of the waves duller than before. Something was off, and my instinct told me that it was not the right day to be out there, not the time to be diving for hydrothermal vents. But Linden was eager, and had his wetsuit on before my concerns had fully solidified.
“I’ll follow the same grid we’ve been using,” he said, “and patch the info up to you.”
I checked the seismograph and thermograph, and everything checked out. There were some artifacts on the sonar, but they were small and could have been caused by anything. We tested communications again, then his halogen lamp and air tanks. Once we were both sure everything was working, we calibrated our GPS coordinates and Linden slipped into the water. He stayed at the surface long enough to rub spit in his mask and wave three fingers at me to indicate he was ready. Then he donned his mask and dove, the off-colored water bubbling around his flippered legs.
I knew something was wrong after ten minutes, once he lost the uplink connection with the LSC. Or perhaps I merely suspected it, somewhere in the depths of my brain. Not enough, it seems, that I recall panicking, or acting in any way concerned. I was too engrossed in parsing reports, checking maps, verifying equipment. At the back of my mind I wondered, but the distraction of the immediate tamped down my fear. After all, despite checking and rechecking the equipment, it was not the first time a glitch occurred. The preliminary exploration was not scientifically relevant, so accidents could safely occur.
Accidents
—Perhaps I should have chosen a different word. . . .
I heard a noise I initially mistook for gulls squawking, and it barely registered in the periphery of my consciousness. It was only when it continued unabated that it sounded strange to me. I looked up from my work to see Linden at least two hundred feet away, splashing and coughing in the water. He looked to be in the throes of some kind of spasm, and I rushed to get the engine started and drive over to his side. He was beginning to bob in the water, and I fear had I arrived a single second later he would have sunk irrecoverably into the depths. As it was, with great effort I was able to pull him onto the deck and turn him on his side to help drain the water. His face, though, was what troubled me. It was bright red, as though it had been burned, and covered in tiny white marks I first took for blisters before I realized they were something else, some organic material that had become lodged in his skin. I was at a loss as to what to do, so I simply stood for a moment watching him heave an opaque mucous onto the deck of the boat. Once it was clear, between the heaves, that he was breathing, I got back behind the wheel and pushed the engine as fast as I dared toward the shore.
Linden was still unconscious when we arrived at the marina, and I yelled for help getting him off the boat. Some of the weekend boaters came to help me get Linden to shore, and one called an ambulance while we verified Linden’s life signs. At one point I remember looking up from where I knelt to see that craggy old fellow watching from behind the crowd, not saying a word.
They kept Linden in that emergency room for hours, while I sat like an ineffectual fool in the waiting room, wringing my wool hat in my hands and wondering what I was going to do if Linden did not survive the ordeal. When the doctor finally emerged from behind the closed doors, I studied his inscrutable face in vain. I wanted to see him happy, would have understood if he were somber, but instead it was something far different. He seemed puzzled, enough so that his confusion penetrated the mask of professionalism he had no doubt fostered and perfected over the years. He approached me, glasses riding low and heavy on his nose, and quickly scratched his head, stalling before he had to speak.