Navy offered us this surplus chamber, I
snapped it up."
"What does it do?"
"If a person gets bent, you put him
inside and pump the chamber full of air and pressurize it to the equivalent of
the depth the dive tables say he should be at to begin safe decompression — a
hundred feet, two hundred, whatever. We
can pressurize the chamber to the equivalent of a thousand feet. Pressure puts the nitrogen back into solution
in the person's bloodstream, so the bubbles disappear and he feels normal
again. Usually. But it depends on how long ago he was bent
and how much damage was already done.
"Then comes the
tricky part. You reduce the pressure in the chamber very gradually,
which is like bringing the person up from depth very slowly, almost inch by
inch, so the nitrogen has a chance to flush itself from his tissue. Sometimes it takes as long as a whole
day."
"What happens if he comes up too
fast?"
"You mean really too fast? He'll
die."
They tossed their soda cans into a trash
basket, and went outside.
On the southeast corner of the island, an
enormous circle of concrete, fifty feet in diameter, had been poured into forms set in craters blasted into the ledge rock. The circle had been filled with water, and the
natural boulders had been left within it to make platforms and caverns.
"It looks like the sea lion house at
the zoo," Max said.
"Good for you... that's what it
is. I had it custom-built for Dr. Macy's
sea lions."
"Do you think I'll be able to play
with them?"
"I don't see why not." Chase looked at his watch. "But right now I've got to go make a
couple of calls. Want to come?"
"Can I go ask Tall Man for a fish,
maybe try to feed Chief Joseph?"
"Sure." Chase started away, then stopped. "But, hey, Max,
remember... this is an island... water, water everywhere."
Max grimaced. "Dad..."
"I know, I know, I'm sorry,"
Chase said. Then he smiled. "But you've got to remember, I'm pretty
new at this fathering business."
* * * * *
Chase sat at his desk and stared at the
fax copy of the bank-transfer slip. Dr.
Macy's money would be good funds in the Institute's account at the borough bank
tomorrow morning. He could pay Mrs.
Bixler, he could pay Tall Man and the caretaker, Gene, he could clear his tabs with the fuel dock and the grocery store. He could even pay his insurance premium on
time, avoiding a late charge for the first time in months.
He should probably frame the fax and hang
it on the wall, the way some people framed the first dollar bill their business
took in, because this ten thousand was a real lifesaver, the first step on the
Institute's road to solvency. If he
could keep Dr. Macy and her sea lions here for the full three months — and why
shouldn’t he? The weather would be good,
and the whales should be passing back and forth till the end of September —
he'd take in thirty thousand dollars, enough to keep him afloat until the end
of the year. Maybe by then grant money
would have loosened up for the bite-dynamics project; maybe he'd be able to
wangle some charters from cable TV companies doing shows on sharks or whales;
maybe... maybe what?... maybe he'd win
the lottery.
Yes, he'd copy the fax and frame the
copy. He'd enjoy looking back at it
later on, when times were better.
He wondered if Dr. Macy had any idea how
critical her ten thousand was to him. And what did ten grand mean to her? Nothing, probably. The state university system in
California
sucked up
hundreds of millions in grants every year. Ten thousand was probably petty cash to her.
He wondered what Macy herself would be
like. All natural, he'd bet,
fiber-loaded, fully organic, no preservatives, one of those women who smelled
of lamb fat because their sweaters were knit from raw New Zealand wool, who
wore little round eyeglasses and had dirt between their toes from
snapped it up."
"What does it do?"
"If a person gets bent, you put him
inside and pump the chamber full of air and pressurize it to the equivalent of
the depth the dive tables say he should be at to begin safe decompression — a
hundred feet, two hundred, whatever. We
can pressurize the chamber to the equivalent of a thousand feet. Pressure puts the nitrogen back into solution
in the person's bloodstream, so the bubbles disappear and he feels normal
again. Usually. But it depends on how long ago he was bent
and how much damage was already done.
"Then comes the
tricky part. You reduce the pressure in the chamber very gradually,
which is like bringing the person up from depth very slowly, almost inch by
inch, so the nitrogen has a chance to flush itself from his tissue. Sometimes it takes as long as a whole
day."
"What happens if he comes up too
fast?"
"You mean really too fast? He'll
die."
They tossed their soda cans into a trash
basket, and went outside.
On the southeast corner of the island, an
enormous circle of concrete, fifty feet in diameter, had been poured into forms set in craters blasted into the ledge rock. The circle had been filled with water, and the
natural boulders had been left within it to make platforms and caverns.
"It looks like the sea lion house at
the zoo," Max said.
"Good for you... that's what it
is. I had it custom-built for Dr. Macy's
sea lions."
"Do you think I'll be able to play
with them?"
"I don't see why not." Chase looked at his watch. "But right now I've got to go make a
couple of calls. Want to come?"
"Can I go ask Tall Man for a fish,
maybe try to feed Chief Joseph?"
"Sure." Chase started away, then stopped. "But, hey, Max,
remember... this is an island... water, water everywhere."
Max grimaced. "Dad..."
"I know, I know, I'm sorry,"
Chase said. Then he smiled. "But you've got to remember, I'm pretty
new at this fathering business."
* * * * *
Chase sat at his desk and stared at the
fax copy of the bank-transfer slip. Dr.
Macy's money would be good funds in the Institute's account at the borough bank
tomorrow morning. He could pay Mrs.
Bixler, he could pay Tall Man and the caretaker, Gene, he could clear his tabs with the fuel dock and the grocery store. He could even pay his insurance premium on
time, avoiding a late charge for the first time in months.
He should probably frame the fax and hang
it on the wall, the way some people framed the first dollar bill their business
took in, because this ten thousand was a real lifesaver, the first step on the
Institute's road to solvency. If he
could keep Dr. Macy and her sea lions here for the full three months — and why
shouldn’t he? The weather would be good,
and the whales should be passing back and forth till the end of September —
he'd take in thirty thousand dollars, enough to keep him afloat until the end
of the year. Maybe by then grant money
would have loosened up for the bite-dynamics project; maybe he'd be able to
wangle some charters from cable TV companies doing shows on sharks or whales;
maybe... maybe what?... maybe he'd win
the lottery.
Yes, he'd copy the fax and frame the
copy. He'd enjoy looking back at it
later on, when times were better.
He wondered if Dr. Macy had any idea how
critical her ten thousand was to him. And what did ten grand mean to her? Nothing, probably. The state university system in
California
sucked up
hundreds of millions in grants every year. Ten thousand was probably petty cash to her.
He wondered what Macy herself would be
like. All natural, he'd bet,
fiber-loaded, fully organic, no preservatives, one of those women who smelled
of lamb fat because their sweaters were knit from raw New Zealand wool, who
wore little round eyeglasses and had dirt between their toes from
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