She shrugged. "Dishpan body? It doesn't show."

Ellen smiled faintly. "That isn't what I meant. The bends and nosebleeds and... what do they call it? Embolism?" She blushed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't interfere."

"He's a big boy now, Ellen, isn't he?"

An unspoken answer, And so was Sean, hung in the morning air.

Carla cocked her head and studied her, lightly rubbing the forefinger of her right hand across her lips. A beautiful woman, she thought. Someday she'd like to do her in bronze: bronze, durable and strong.

And burning now, somehow, with enduring rage at something. The sea? Fate? Life?

"You're a pretty woman, Ellen Brody. And Hoagie thinks so too."

"Yes," said Ellen gravely. "Yes, I know."

Then she turned back to the windows once again.

***

Michael came back from his afternoon dive and tied the sub to the barge. Huge anvil-shaped clouds were gathering to the north, and he heard roll of thunder. There was a squall brewing on the boat too. William, their tall "first mate," was staring at the deck, as if he wished he were somewhere else. Clarence, their jet-black deckhand, whose smile could tear out your heart, was glowering at the ocean.

Jake, shirtless, huge biceps gleaming with sweat, emerged from the deckhouse. "Another transmitter's gone," he said with a growl. "I haven't heard a peep from Conch Thirteen."

"Meaning?" asked Michael softly, stripping his wet suit off one arm. He kept his eyes steady on Jake's; damned if he'd let him browbeat him in front of the crew.

"Meaning the bloody BPST fell off him," Jake boomed, "and you only tagged him yesterday."

"I don't suppose his battery went dead?"

"In twenty-four hours? Not likely, now is it?"

"Maybe you need another brand of epoxy," suggested Mike, working out of his neoprene pants. "You travel cheap, you pay."

A clap of thunder sounded. Christ, it was hot and sultry, and he knew that Jake was about to explode.

"Or another brand of diver," muttered Jake, "who'll let the damn stuff set!" He picked up the underwater writing board that Mike had tossed on the compressor. "Let's see your tally, mon."

The board had rubbed against his wet suit, and the grease pencil writing had smudged. Jake shook his head. "If this is how your thesis reads, God help you at Boston U."

"If yours got by, mine ought to."

Michael instantly regretted saying it. He had to keep his temper, or else the ship, his Ph.D. program, and the whole conch project would sink without a trace. Whatever had happened topside, Clarence looked as if he were about to grab the nearest conch knife and make a run on Jake. It was a good thing the director had a build like Leonard Spinks.

"Michael, this tally sucks. Where are they all?"

"Go look yourself. I did my best."

"A blind mon could find more conch on a mountain," muttered Jake.