Jake, for reasons unknown to Mike, was on the bottom in place of him, wearing a triple block of tanks, which he'd probably need, since he hadn't dived in a year. The less you dived, the more uncomfortable you were on the bottom. Apprehension generated adrenaline, and adrenaline used up air. Startled by every barracuda that passed, afraid you'd stick your hand into a moray's sacred hole, bothered even by the raucous sound of your own regulator, Jake would doubtless have to surface in less than half an hour.

A waste when Jake hated to dive, had the "bad ear" he used as an excuse, and couldn't cover half the area that Mike could himself.

And was too big to fit in the cockpit of the Whine Bottle, which was idle while he dived.

An enigma, like most of the morning's doings. Clarence had not reported for work, and William was moody too.

He studied the trace on the screen, trying to distinguish T and CRW waves on the pattern. So who cared? He'd rather be on the bottom.

Last month Jake somehow had hooked up the big DEC computer to the acoustic receiver, saving the expense of a separate monitor. He was a genius, Jake was, and was wasted on the bottom; he should be sitting here.

The trace of the conch—a green series of mountain peaks marching across the screen—grew higher. A rise in amplitude meant that the animal was moving, or excited by something below. Maybe it heard Jake thrashing around among its brothers and sisters, tagging shells.

What a way to earn a living, sitting at a monitor at the end of the earth, watching the heartbeat of a lifeform with all the glamour of a garden snail.

The project was in trouble. The financial crisis in the U.S. had cut off tourist income. The Bahamian Senate in Nassau had sliced Ministry of Fisheries funds; the Ministry of Fisheries had cut the conch study grant.

He reflected bitterly that someone in the Bahamian Senate was getting rich. If the Bay Street Boys in Nassau would allot them a thousandth of the income they were getting for letting narcotraficantes use Galleon Cay, he and Jake could tag every conch in the Bahamas three times over.

What would become of Jake and himself when the project collapsed, he did not know. His thesis was barely started. He could not survive without the job. And unless he got the Ph.D., he saw no hope of ever supporting Carla, Thea, and the little boy they'd someday like to have.

A squawk came from his acoustic receiver. He could barely recognize a human voice. Jake had never mastered the underwater microphone and always sounded as if he were chewing on his mouth piece.