He turned away from the slides and microscope. Fred was splendidly drippy, her green hair plastered to her head, her T-shirt almost transparent in a couple of interesting places, her feet bare and pink and comely. She carried her shoes in one hand. The pretentious lug from the Black Sea, Artur, was looming behind her like a mugger, carrying his own shoes.

Where does he get clothing? Thomas wondered.

“Are you paying attention?” she demanded.

“Yeah, Fred, I know. It’s why I’m here, remember?”

Fred stomped toward him. He wasn’t sure weather to back up or try for a kiss. Since her hands were both in fists, he decided to compromise and stay where he was. He could hold his own in a fight, but he imagined Fred could rip him in half without much trouble.

And that redheaded bum, Artur, would be happy to help.

“You’re not listening,” she said, jabbing a bony finger at his chest. “Somebody is dumping his shit in the harbor. Literal shit.”

“Oh, great,” he groaned. “That’s really nice. How lovely. Right: into the harbor. Did you get a noseful?”

Her lips made an odd twisting motion, like she wanted to spit but was stopping herself. “I got a mouthful, feels like. It still feels like.”

“All right. Well. I’m sorry to hear that, but it’s actually helpful.”

“How could you not know, with all your papers, what it was?” Artur demanded.

Thomas gave the lug a look. “It’s a big ocean, Artur. And shit, for want of a better term, is all natural. It can be mixed up with a few things, I’m sorry to say.” He took a breath and turned back to Fred. “Anyway, thanks for telling me this. I’m sorry you had to get a snotful, but at least it narrows down—”

“I figured. That’s why we came to tell you.”

“I was just over at City Hall and got copies of all building permits granted to anyone in a three square mile radius—” He gestured at the new pile of paper. “That, coupled with the fact that none of the Undersea Folk noticed the, uh, shit until recently, and you didn’t notice, and the fact that it’s, you know, shit, makes me think it’s a new building.”

“Duh.” Fred, his darling, looked annoyed she hadn’t thought of it herself. “It’s a hotel.”

“Why do you think this?” the big red lug asked.

“New building by the harbor? That amount of shit? It’s a new hotel. They probably played fast and loose with the city council and now there’s a pipe in the wrong place, dumping the crap of tourists into our harbor.”

“A hotel like the building in which Thomas and I reside? A place strangers call home for a short period of time?”

“Yeah. And every room has a bathroom. And all that water—and what it takes away—has to go somewhere. It should go to a treatment plant first. Unless someone cut corners.”

“Contrary to what they taught us in Finding Nemo, all pipes do not lead to the ocean. Unless you design them that way.”