The Whiteness of the Whale: A Novel (21 page)

Back in the salon, he frowned. “What do you think?” he murmured.

“What do you mean?” Sara said.

Perrault made a hushing gesture. “Let’s go to the engine room,” he suggested. “You, me, and Sara. Or—just a moment. Let me look at the sky, and get Eddi to relieve Lars. I will meet you down there.”

*   *   *

Heat still radiated off the massive hulks of steel, though they were shut down. She found a perch between the starboard engine block and a large piece of metal and rubber ductwork, and enjoyed the toasting until the door opened and Perrault stepped down, followed by Bodine and Madsen. The Dane looked taken aback at seeing her there. Bodine just glanced over, then away.

Perrault waited until they all found places to lean, then took off his watch cap and ruffled his hair. Was it her imagination, or was it grayer than when they’d left Ushuaia? “All right, what does everybody think?”

“I’ve been topside,” Madsen interjected.

Bodine brought him up to date in a few sentences. He finished, “He says he’s a neurobiologist. Sara?”

“Well—a doctoral candidate. Probably working on his thesis.”

“Is he what he says?”

She lifted her eyebrows. “He knew a prominent primate researcher.”

“He knew his
name
,” Bodine corrected. “Which he could have been primed with.”

“Primed with for what?” She frowned.

“To make us accept him,” Madsen said.

She understood suddenly. “You think he’s been, what—
sent
here?”

“It’d make sense.” Bodine absently scratched a prosthesis as if it were a real limb. “Look at it from their point of view. They know Greenpeace. They know Sea Shepherds. But they don’t know CPL. We’ve tried to keep everything low-key. Funded with private donations, not public appeals. No press releases. An unknown quantity. Faced with that, any commander would want intel.”

“By having one of his men jump overboard?” She shook her head. “If I hadn’t seen him, he’d have died. If Dru hadn’t gotten to him in time, he’d be a floating popsicle. He’s some kind of spy? I don’t think so.”

“Or worse,” Madsen put in darkly. “That was Captain Crunch on that bridge. Same guy who killed two protesters a couple seasons ago. I can see him sending somebody aboard with orders to make trouble. Maybe even scuttle us.”

Sara remembered a middle-aged Japanese, a swarthy, hard face glaring down at them. Then turning away, to snap an order that was tantamount to murder. But what the boy had said had the ring of truth to her. “Oh, for heaven’s sake
. Scuttle
us? He’d go down too.”

“Why not?” But he sounded defensive. Perrault looked doubtful too.

She said, “I just don’t see it, Mick. I think he, Hideyashi, is either brave as hell, or maybe, slightly nutty. In a harmless way, I think. But I don’t think he’s what you’re suggesting.”

The captain said, “What about this radio message he wants us to send?”

“It’s to his
parents
, for God’s sake. The whaler will report him lost at sea.”

The Frenchman sighed and dug something out from between his teeth. “I’m worried about Jamie, too.”

“I think he’ll be okay,” Bodine said. “If he doesn’t get an infection. That’s the big hurdle there.”

“So you think he’s what he says he is? Sara?”

“It’ll be easy to tell if he’s actually got a background in mammalian neuroscience. Nobody’s going to be able to fake that at short notice.”

“I’d keep a close eye on him,” Madsen said. “Keep him tied to his bunk.”

The captain looked at the overhead. “Sara will test him. But I’m not tying him to the bunk. For one thing, we don’t have enough beds to start tying people into them. He’s going to have to share anyway. At least until we give him back.”

Sara frowned. “Give him back? But—”

“There may be legal issues involved. Right now, I don’t know. I radioed
Maru Number 3
that we recovered a man overboard. That much we owe them, in case they’re searching for him. I also notified our home office, so the legal people can do the research. Meanwhile, he needs to share someone’s bunk. Lars?”

Madsen drew back. “I don’t want him.”

“You could keep a better eye on him.”

“How? He’d be up when I was asleep. And vice versa.”

“Just do it,” the captain said. The Dane looked sullen, but nodded curtly.

The door opened and they turned. It was Eddi, and she looked scared, hugging herself, eyes wide. “What is it?” Perrault said.

“Mick? I think you better come. There’s something bad wrong with Jamie.”

*   *   *

Sara stood in the doorway while Bodine and the captain crouched next to the bunk. It was shaking. Quaking so hard it squeaked. The mate was conscious, but his whole body was spasming so violently it was a wonder he didn’t buck out onto the deck. Bodine had his thermometer out, was about to thrust it into Jamie’s mouth, when Perrault said, “Mick.”

“What?”

“The thermometer.”

A blank look; then comprehension. “Gotcha.” He bent and from a small locker under the mate’s sink extracted a liter bottle. Popov. Wiped down with vodka, flicked dry again, the instrument went under the mate’s tongue. “Don’t bite through it,” Bodine warned. “We don’t have a spare.”

“’Ry not oo.” Quill tried to haul himself upright, but shook so badly he slid down flat on the bunk again. He blinked above the thermometer, which presently commenced a shrill electronic peeping like a tiny truck backing up. Bodine whipped it out and examined it. But didn’t immediately speak.

“Well?”

“It’s high.”

“How high,” Sara prompted.

“Hundred and four,” Bodine said reluctantly. “How you feel, Jamie?”

“Not too bad, except for this fucking shaking.”

“Chills? Feel cold?”

“Yeah. Course, that’s nothing new.” He forced a grin through his beard, but was beginning to look apprehensive. “What’ve I got, sawbones?”

“Might have a bug,” Bodine said.

“Thought you already gave me some shite for that.”

“Yeah, well, we’re gonna give you more. Be right back.” To Sara he said, “Better get him another blanket.”

She followed him out while the captain drew a chair up beside the bunk. Down the corridor, past the master suite, she said in a low voice, “What’s he got?”

“It’s not good. Something sharp perforated his stomach. We never did figure out what. Probably a piece of stray wire, something like that.”

“His stomach … his intestines?”

On into the salon, continuing forward. Bodine kept all his medical supplies up in the forward tunnel. He muttered, “Couldn’t tell. No X-ray equipment. I cleaned it out with Betadine and bandaged it. Gave him a thousand milligrams of ciprofloxacin. A wide-spectrum antibiotic. I’ve seen some pretty serious gut wounds pull through on cipro.”

“Yeah, but they were operated on afterward—right?”

He didn’t answer, just ducked through the hatch. She didn’t pursue him, just stood there in the cold. Then recollected: blanket. She ducked behind her curtain. Kimura quickly covered himself and smiled. “Can you spare one of these?” she asked him.

“Oh, oh sure. I can spare.”

Bodine came back through the salon and she dogged after him. “So what’s he got, then? Jamie, I mean?”

“Chills and fever.” He stopped opposite the kitchen, and frank worry filled his eyes instead of the barrier that had been there before. “Bacteremia. What used to be called septicemia. And before that, blood poisoning.”

“But you gave him antibiotics.”

“Enough for a horse. Trouble is, whatever’s in his bloodstream is resistant to cipro. Obviously. I’ll give him more, but unfortunately, that’s the only antibiotic we have.”

“If it doesn’t work?”

He shrugged. “His organs will shut down, and he’ll die.”

“But…” She struggled briefly with the logic. “Then we have to go back. Get him to a hospital. At least, someplace with different antibiotics.”

“Where? He’ll be dead long before we reach Ushuaia, or anywhere else with a doctor. He’s strong. But that may not be enough.” He held her gaze for a second, then turned back for the mate’s cabin. Leaving her standing in the passageway, hugging herself.

*   *   *

Their new guest was sitting at the table in blue CPL ski pants, a blanket over his shoulders. His breath plumed in the still air, and he looked rather green. Eddi Auer was fussing across the salon, setting up a videocamera on a tripod, a light.
Anemone
rolled, and she snapped a bungee around the tripod as it teetered. “This boat moves a great deal more than ours,” the Japanese said. Made a hesitant gesture. “You are—?”

“Dr. Sara Pollard.”

“That is right. Dr. Pollard. I will remember next time.” He rubbed his head, looking lost.

“What are you doing?” she asked Eddi, who told her Perrault wanted a recorded statement from the new arrival testifying that he was being well treated. “For publicity, or to avoid any legal problems—I’m not exactly sure,” she added. Sara hesitated, then took a seat beside him. Close up he smelled of saltwater and some kind of liniment or alcohol rub.

Eddi had just turned on the light when Dorée came forward. She was in a skintight black sweater, hair pulled tight to her skull in a French braid. She wore full makeup, eyeliner, everything. She sat down on Kimura’s other side as Eddi began, reading from a card, “This is an interview aboard the French-flagged Cetacean Protection League vessel
Black Anemone
, with a castaway picked up earlier today. Sir, please state your name and nationality.”

“I am Hideyashi Kimura, graduate student at Tokyo University. I live in Chiyoda, Japan. I am a Japanese citizen.”

Dorée said, “I have a lot of fans in Japan.”

Kimura looked confused. He half turned to her. “I am sorry?”

“I have a lot of followers in Tokyo. A huge fan club.”

“
So desu ka.
You are…?”

She smiled. “You must not have heard. Of course not; you were so frozen. I’m Tehiyah Dorée. You’ve seen my films.”

She held out a hand and Kimura took it hesitantly. He looked from Dorée to Auer. “You both make films?”

Sara found herself suddenly choking. She caught Eddi’s ironic glance and had to turn away not to laugh out loud. Dorée bit her lip. “Never mind.” She glared from one woman to the other. “Do your fucking interview, then. I’ll be in my cabin. And be sure to edit that out.”

“I’ll do that, Tehiyah.”

When she left they both burst out laughing. Their guest looked puzzled. Finally Eddi asked what ship he’d been on, whether he’d gone overboard on purpose, and if he wanted to be returned. To the last question he said firmly, “No. I leave for ethical reasons. I do not wish to be returned against my will. I send respect to my father, mother, and family. I am being treated well here and wish to stay.”

“Anything else?” Eddi asked him, and he shook his head. She shut off the lights. “I’ll get this uploaded,” she said, and took the camera off the stand and went forward.

Leaving Sara with him. Okay, she thought. Dru wants to know if he’s really a neurobiologist. She opened with, “So how did you meet Dr. Matsuzawa? You said you knew him.”

“Yes. My adviser, I think that is the word, was one of his students. He came to Tokyo University to give a lecture.”

“What on?”

“Well, he began with computer modeling of visual neuroscience. How to reduce … no,
replicate
in silicon the synaptic structures underlying primate vision. He had a model he ran on a computer. The results—very impressive. We could see how information became abstracted, passed up the chain toward the conscious level.”

“Tell me more.”

Kimura hunched forward, smiling, apparently forgetting his seasickness. Or trying to ignore it. “Of course. He described a model of how neural networks transmit. And at the same time, interpolate … no,
interpret
information an organism may perceive as important to its survival. Food. Sexual objects. Threats. Sensory transduction in a molecular cascade. How the brain, uh, short-circuits responses to stimuli it thinks might be life-threatening. Then he spoke about ethical challenges in working with advanced, uh, species. Such as primates and whales.” Kimura smiled sheepishly. “Actually I asked that question, at the end.”

“I see. What’s your thesis on, Hideyashi?”

He hesitated; but apparently was only trying to reformulate Japanese to English. “It centers on the analogy between what I am calling the 4, K area of the generic whale brain and the amygdala in primate brain. You know the role of the amygdala in anxiety and social disorders?”

“The
suspected
role.”

“Oh, I think it is confirmed by PET-scan studies. Most of them, of humans with selective bilateral damage. But there are so few. Mostly war victims. So Dr. Matsuzawa was employing chimpanzee subjects. They live in highly structured groups with hierarchical relationships. Thus they require to do a great deal of interpretation of social communication. The chimps, that is. He ablated—is that the word? Yes?—areas of the amygdala and observed the resultant psychopathology.”

She was so interested now she almost forgot the purpose of the interrogation. “What were his results?”

“He described how the amygdala operates to inhibit threat response in social situations. This slows cascading transduction and allows time for evaluation on the preconscious level. He also thinks human, what you call, social phobia or—we call it
taijin kyofusho
—is it, body dysmorphic disorder? To reflect a dysregulation of this discriminative procedure.” He flushed. “I am sorry, my English is not good—these are complex matters—”

“Your English is excellent. Don’t worry about that. Did you happen to hear him mention Von Economo neurons?”

“These are also called the spindle neurons, correct?” She nodded and he went on. “Yes, they too are involved in social interactions, in the mirroring function. You know, when you see someone dancing and your legs twitch.”

“That’s not all they do. There are Von Economos that have nothing to do with visual processing—”

“Perhaps I don’t understand that so well. I do know spindle neurons, though. I have dissected one hundred and forty-four humpback brains since this cruise began. I have preserved and stained over a thousand slides.”