Why such diversity in such tiny organisms, less than one millimeter in length? Obviously each was suited to a specific purpose and mode of life, fitted perfectly into its "niche," yet he couldn't help but marvel at the seemingly endless proliferation of design and the incredibly minute adaptations to environment.
By his right elbow lay his notebook and several sheets of graph paper, and next to those on the bench his heavily annotated copy of the standard work, Detrick's
Chase wrote up his notes, frequently going back to the eyepiece to check a detail, and made rough sketches of the various subclasses to complement his descriptions. He found the ordered routine of lab work deeply satisfying. The slow, painstaking accumulation of observed data, the classifying and cross-referencing, the fragmentary picture slowly emerging--though after four months of steady work he was still a long way away from reaching any kind of conclusion. He shook his head in mute wonder at the amount of work Detrick must have put in to write his monumental study, surely a lifetime's dedication. Did he have that kind of perseverance? He doubted it; for instance, that specimen of brine he'd examined yesterday. He'd spent damn near three hours distilling it and setting up the test, and he might have been looking at tap water. The sample had obviously been spoiled, contaminated somewhere between collection and the lab. It had come from his last dive, he recalled, when Nick was handling the net. Maybe that explained why it had been low on what one would have normally expected to find in the ocean under the Antarctic Ice Shelf--low on phytoplankton, diatoms, and
Anyway, he'd written off the sample as a botched job and thrown the whole bloody lot down the sink. So much for the objective, dispassionate scientist. No, he thought wryly, a 378-page treatise on marine biology wouldn't be appearing under the name of Dr. Gavin Chase.
Still, he should have logged it. Supposing it
Chase stretched and yawned and glanced at his watch: twenty past four. This being Friday he didn't have any qualms of conscience about packing up early. George Pelham, his research colleague, had left at three. Off on another weekend hike, Chase supposed. God, that guy must walk ten thousand miles a year. There probably wasn't a square inch of the British Isles he hadn't tramped over in his size-ten boots.
It took him only a few minutes to clear away and return the specimen jars to the freezer.
He hung up his white coat and shrugged into his jacket. Then in the mirror next to the wall telephone, he caught sight of his bulging shirt-front. Soft living was catching up to him, that and English beer. He must have put ten pounds on since he got back. He didn't mind not winning the Nobel, but being overweight was just too much. Bike or pool? He didn't relish the idea of cycling now that the damp autumn nights were here, so it was down to the baths and twenty-five lengths of slow crawl. Sunday morning, definitely.
He walked up the three flights of bleak concrete stairways to the flat and let himself in, feeling smugly pleased. He was only slightly out of breath.
Normally Angie didn't finish at the studio till six-thirty, and then went for a drink or two--usually three--with her colleagues from the newsroom, but today she was sitting in an armchair with her feet propped up, clasping a large gin and tonic.
"Like to go to a party, darling?"
"When?" Chase said as if inquiring about the date of his execution.
"Tonight."
"Where?"
"Archie's. Somebody's leaving do and Archie kindly offered. You were specifically invited, nay, commanded to attend. I said yes for both of us."
Chase draped his jacket over a chair, taking his time and doing it carefully to show he wasn't annoyed, which he was. He didn't like
