The Sensory Deception by Ransom Stephens

mission.”
    Farley could hear Walt sigh.
    “Walt, what’s going on?”
    “Maybe I don’t understand the proposal. Can you call me tomorrow at the office and walk me through it?”
    So far, calling Walt’s office had been futile, so Farley said, “I’ll do better than that. I’ll be there at ten.”
    “I don’t have my schedule in front of me, so I’m not sure—”
    “Look, I have to be in San Francisco tomorrow anyway. I’ll stop by your office. We can crank it out in a few minutes. See you then.” He hung up before Walt could respond.
    He put the phone in his pocket and took a seat on the couch. Ringo was puttering between the lab and kitchen and Chopper was upstairs. He took his laptop from the table and sent e-mail to oceanography colleagues around the world asking for updated locations of known sperm whale pods.
    The next morning, he had e-mails confirming the approximate locations of four pods, one each off the coast of Argentina, near the Great Barrier Reef, near Bermuda, and off the east coast of Africa. Three came from Greenpeace, and he didn’t recognize the name of the organization tracking the fourth.
    He drove up the coast to avoid both Silicon Valley and San Francisco commuter traffic, and then cut across San Francisco from the Great Highway to the Greenpeace offices in a neighborhood south of Market Street. The door opened to a large work area packed with volunteers. Farley signed in and askeda volunteer to tell Walt that he was here. Then he watched the activity, enjoying a nostalgic buzz until half an hour had passed and he realized that Walt was ignoring him.
    Farley did what came naturally: he took over. By lunchtime, he had coordinated a telephone fund-raising campaign, assembled a team to design posters, and put three techies together to code up a new Greenpeace smartphone app. When Walt emerged from his office, he found Farley at the whiteboard.
    Walt walked up from behind and said, “It figures. I try to blow you off and you reorganize my team.”
    “Good to see you, Walt. Let me take you to lunch.”
    Walt stared at the poster designs and then said, “All right, I owe you that.”
    As they walked across Seventeenth Street to Chez Maman, Farley described the Moby-Dick project. “Picture it, Walt, a firsthand experience of life as a sperm whale.”
    The host seated them, and Farley set a copy of his proposal on the table. Walt looked at his watch.
    “How can recording the experience of a whale be outside of Greenpeace’s mission?”
    Walt sighed. A waiter set down glasses of water. Walt sipped his. Farley waited.
    “Farley, I like what you’re doing. I sent your proposal to Canada and France, and every time someone else saw what you’re trying to do, they raised the same objection that I have.” He looked across the restaurant and then back at Farley. “What if something goes wrong? Do you have any idea what would happen to Greenpeace if you hurt a bull sperm whale? What if you killed it?”
    “Walt, please. You know better than that. I’ve got Chopper Vittori designing the tranquilizer. Lots of things can go wrong, but the animals are safe.”
    “Look, if it were a land mammal or a bird, even a seal or a dolphin, we could manage the risk. But a bull sperm whale? We can’t do that.”
    “You remember Chopper? You know who I’m talking about, right?”
    “Oh, yeah.” Walt nodded. “Chopper used to face down harpoons like they were slingshots—but Chopper was reckless. Has he changed?”
    “Hold on. Chopper is dedicated. He—”
    “I’m not questioning anyone’s dedication. It’s risk assessment. A mistake could shut us down. The answer is no.”
    The waiter asked if they were ready to order. Farley didn’t hear what Walt ordered but said, “I’ll have that, too.”
    Farley felt deflated. He’d always respected Walt. Farley asked, “What if I stepped aside? You could lead the whole endeavor. I don’t even have to be there.”
    “What?” Walt started to