He sloshed back and took a further sample in the middle and another nearer to the bank. Moments later the three samples labelled “U” were stowed safely in the milk crate.
He kept the waders on and clumped along the bank. At the factory he stood for a moment looking at the pipe work. Why was there such a lot of it? Did they use river water for cooling purposes, too? Effluent would certainly be discharged into the river through one of those pipes and it would be lovely to get a concentrated sample, but it was impossible to know which one. He selected a position just downstream, close to the metal bridge. This wasn’t far from where Loomis was attacked so he looked warily about him but there was no one in sight. Soon he had three more samples, labelled “F” for factory. He set off again.
The final site would be further downstream, approaching the road. Still wearing the clumsy thigh waders he passed the place where he’d paused the previous evening, crouching on the bank, trying to interpret the unnatural stillness of the scene. The stone bridge came into view. Now the banks were high and the river deeper and more turbulent. He set the crate down and contemplated the water. People had been borne away and drowned in a flow like that. He gritted his teeth, took the last three bottles and descended into the river.
The sheer pressure of the current took him by surprise. Each time he lifted a leg the water pulled at it as if it were hell-bent on turning him over. He felt his way carefully; the river bed was strewn with rocks and it would be easy to get a foot trapped. He decided to take his samples on the way in rather than on the way out. As soon as he’d filled the first bottle he capped it then lobbed it into the short grass on the bank. He edged forward, the water pressing even harder, foaming noisily all around him. The second sample landed on the bank and he went further in. Now the water was nearing the tops of his thighs. With the next step his foot contacted – nothing. For one unnerving moment the leg was weightless, taken by the powerful current as if it were no longer part of him. He resisted, dragging it back against the pressure, and found his footing again. Evidently a deeper channel had been scoured out in the middle. It was too dangerous to go on. He took one more sample, tossed the bottle to the bank, and splashed his way back to the shallows and out of the river. As he retrieved each bottle from the grass he checked the cap was screwed down tightly, labelled it “D” for downstream, and put it in the crate. Nine in all: he was done. Going up the bank wasn’t easy with waders on, but it was the quickest route back to the village.
He saw them as soon as he straightened up at the top: four young men, heading his way. One of them must have spotted him earlier. He sat down immediately to take off the waders. That wasn’t easy because they were tight and slippery from the water. He tugged hard at the right one, felt it loosen; it came off and he stood up. There was no time for the second – they were less than thirty yards away. The youth in front was carrying what looked like a pick-axe handle, the one behind him a baseball bat, and they were coming on at a deliberate pace. There was little doubt about their intentions and the sight of a somewhat rangy academic would be the last thing to deter them.
An image flashed into Terry’s brain of Loomis’s battered features. His stomach contracted.
To run – with one wader on and one off – was out of the question.
Twenty yards.
He was still holding the other wader by the straps. He swung it lightly, then thought better of it and dropped it to the ground.
Ten yards.
His breathing quickened and his heart thudded in his chest.
The youth in the lead gave an animal roar and charged in, lifting the pick-axe handle high in the air. Terry didn’t have to think about it. He caught the wrist before the weapon could fall and used his opponent’s momentum to carry him over his head in a stomach throw. With three more coming on he had to make sure of this one so he let go of the wrist and straightened his leg hard, sending the youth sailing out over the bank. The cry and the crunch of a bad landing registered somewhere in the back of Terry’s mind as he backward rolled and rose to face the next man. Then he spotted the pick-axe handle on the top of the bank where the youth had dropped it. He snatched it up and hefted it. It was shorter and heavier than the shinai, the bamboo sword he’d used in kendo practice, but it would do.
The one now running towards him was short and powerfully built. He was swinging the baseball bat, his features distorted by derision and hatred. Terry lifted into a block, rolled his wrists to deliver a short, chopping blow to the forearm, turned the weapon again to strike the middle of the upper arm, and finished with a hard thrust to the torso. The man doubled over. His mouth opened wide in pain and astonishment but no sound came out. The baseball bat had dropped from his fingers, the arm was rigid, the hand clawed.
An agonized howl floated up from the other side of the bank. The other two ground to an uncertain halt.
Terry remained in the fighting stance, the pick-axe handle pointing directly at them. He fixed them with an unwavering glare.
They eyed him. Everything had gone very still apart from the antics of the second man, who was trying to coax some feeling back into his paralyzed arm. Then another wail rose from the other side of the bank.
“For fuck’s sake…!”
One of the men muttered sideways, “We better see to him.” And then to Terry, “You, we ain’t finished with you, mate.”
Terry watched the two men go down the bank then dropped the pick-axe handle at his feet. He took several deep breaths and sat down to pull off the second wader. Then he rose, picked up his things, and set off quickly for the village.
As he walked he replayed the encounter in his mind. He’d practised moves like that so often they had sunk to the level of pure reflexes, like a tennis serve. It was reassuring to know it was all still there, even though it was a good twelve years since his last inter-university judo match.
The bottles clinked in the crate as he swung it in his left hand. The thigh waders were hanging over his right arm. In the right hand he still had the pick-axe handle.
CHAPTER 4
It was Tuesday afternoon before he had a chance to take the samples over to Dr. Maggie Ferris. From the Physics Block it was just a short walk through the campus to the much newer Biological Sciences Building. Up to two years ago he didn’t know anyone in that building. Then the head of Biology had talked to the former head of Physics and they agreed to run a joint course for Second Year Biology undergraduates. Staff from Physics would explain the principles underlying different types of measurement and for each technique the biologists would give examples of the way it was applied in the lab and in the field. Such a course required two organizers: Terry was asked to take care of the Physics side of things and Maggie accepted the task for Biology.
Maggie was about eight years his junior. This was her first permanent university post and the first time she’d organized a course. He enjoyed working with her; what she lacked in experience she made up for in energy and enthusiasm. Analyzing what was in these bottles wasn’t really in her line but she probably knew someone who could do it.
He forged a way through a noisy gaggle of undergraduates who’d congregated in the foyer, took the stairs to the second floor, and tried her lab. He knew that other people were sometimes in there, and she had her back to him, but the mass of black curls over the white coat was all he needed.
“Hi Maggie.”
She turned and came over as he placed the crate with the samples on a bench. She watched with a bemused expression and her dark eyes travelled from the samples back to him, one slender eyebrow arched.
“River water,” he explained. “From my trip.”
“Well that’s very kind of you, but flowers would be nicer next time.”
He smiled. “Hey, I risked life and limb to get those samples.”
“What for?”
“The river’s dead, polluted. I took those samples last Saturday. I’d like to know what’s in them.”
“I’m a molecular biologist, Terry, n
ot an analytical chemist.”
He shrugged. “I know, but I thought you could point me to someone who could help with it.”
She withdrew one of the bottles from the crate and surveyed it dubiously. It was labelled “U”, one of the three samples he’d taken upstream of the factory. “You might do better over at Chemistry – ”
She’d been absent-mindedly unscrewing the cap as she spoke. There was a sharp hiss of escaping gas.
“What have you brought me here, Terry? Tonic water?” Then she screwed up her eyes and waved a hand in front of her nose. “Ugh Ammonia!”
Terry picked up another sample bottle with interest and unscrewed the cap. It hissed in the same way and he saw bubbles rising in the water. He looked at it for a moment, sniffed at the neck of the bottle and jerked back, coughing.
“God,” he said, “it smelled a bit down at the river, but nothing like that. How did that happen?”
“What was in the bottles before?”
“Oh, various things, but I washed them out thoroughly.”
“In tap water?”
“Yes, but I rinsed each of them in the river before I took the sample.”
“Well, I don’t know. It must be contaminated somehow. Look I’ll give some of it a low-speed spin and we’ll see what comes down. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
He watched her use a chunky automatic pipette to transfer a measured sample from the bottle into a tiny plastic vial. She changed the pipette tip and did the same with the bottle that Terry had unscrewed. Then she went over to a small bench centrifuge, popped the vials into holes on opposite sides of the rotor, and closed the lid. She dialled something and pressed the button. He heard an ascending whine as the motor wound up to speed.
“Now, Terry, it’s a good thing you’re here. There’s a timetable clash and we’re going to have to rejig the lecture schedule. Do you want to come through?”
As they crossed the corridor she said, “How was Cardiff?”
“Pretty hectic. Lot of stuff on exoplanets. Funny – isn’t it? – a few years ago just finding one was a big event; now there are so many it’s not new anymore. People are more interested in composition and atmosphere.”
“Lucky old you.”
“Yes, lucky me.”
She opened the door of her office and they went in.
Fifteen minutes later they returned to the lab. Maggie lifted the lid of the centrifuge, withdrew a vial, and held it up to the light. Then she did the same with the other vial.
“I was half expecting to see some mineral content,” she said, “but there isn’t a well-defined pellet.”
The bottles she’d taken the samples from were still standing on the bench. She unscrewed the cap of the nearest one and started at the sound of escaping gas. It wasn’t as loud as before but it was unmistakable.
She looked up at him, frowning. “It’s still producing it,” she said.
He blinked. “Can’t be.”
She lifted the vial again.
“Terry, there is something there. Was the water clear when you sampled it?”
“Yes, more or less. Clear enough that I could see the silt stirred up by my waders and it went on for yards.”
Her eyes sparkled. “My, you really did risk life and limb, didn’t you?”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“Hang on.”
She attached a rubber bulb to a slim glass pipette and lowered the tip into the cloudy layer she’d noticed at the bottom of the vial. Then she pulled open a drawer, removed a glass slide from a box and put a couple of drops on it. She covered it with a thin slip of glass, carried it across the lab, and sat down at a microscope. It took her just a few moments to manoeuvre the sample around on the stage, twiddling the focus knob and moving lenses in and out, and then he heard her murmur, “Ah, that’s better.”
“Have a look,” she said, as she got up. “That cloudy material is filamentous.”
He squinted down the microscope and adjusted the focus. What he saw was a mass of fine threads. As he moved through the plane of focus a subtle cross-banding came and went. It made each thread look like a fine watch bracelet. He looked up at her.
“What is this stuff?”
“I’m not sure. Some sort of algae, I think. But there are people I can ask. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow, all right?”
“Thanks, Maggie.”
Terry thought about it while he was shaving the next morning. Those river samples were becoming a bit of a mystery. They’d reeked of ammonia, even the ones he’d collected upstream of the factory, so maybe Saunders was being straight with him after all. If the factory wasn’t responsible, what was? Was his river the only one affected?
On his way to the university he stopped by the public lending library and started to leaf through back issues of Trout and Salmon. When the river was polluted in October it had wiped out all the fish. If the same thing had happened to other rivers it should show up in the fishing reports.
In the October issue he read: “In spite of the weather, Mr. Thompson had ten fish in the first week of September, including a fine two-pounder…” Then he realized this wasn’t going to be so simple. Fisheries took pride in their catch returns. They wouldn’t fabricate records but would they report pollution or zero catches? It seemed more likely they’d just wait for the problem to pass, preferring not to report at all. He went back along the shelf and pulled out the issues for September and October of the previous year. Then he quickly ran a finger through the report pages, comparing them side-by-side with the same months in the current year.
In Wales there seemed to be reports missing for the Mawddach, Dysynni, Rheidol, Gwendraeth Fawr, and Loughor. The Camel in Cornwall was also absent. On the other hand reports from fisheries on the North Sea coast were as robust as usual so it looked as if the affected rivers were ones that drained to the Atlantic coast, although by no means all of them. He glanced at his watch and decided there was no time to look at Ireland as well. He was just returning the magazines to their shelves when he paused, his hand resting on them. Wales and Cornwall? That didn’t make sense. If it was some sort of local problem, like a factory chimney belching out pollutants, you’d expect it to poison everything within reach. But the Camel and the Welsh rivers were miles apart. Even within Wales the affected rivers weren’t all together; the ones in between seemed to be fishing normally. He shook his head. Maybe he was on the wrong track.
When he arrived at work his postgraduate student put her head round the door of the lab.
“Thought I heard you, Terry. Maggie phoned. She wanted to talk to you.”
“Thanks, Maria,” he shouted back. He was punching in the number before he’d sat down. It was picked up on the first ring. “Hi Maggie, it’s Terry.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Terry, I think you ought to get over here.”
When he came into the lab she took off her white coat and hung it on the back of the door. They crossed the corridor to her office, where she sat down behind her desk and brushed her hands briefly through her hair, fluffing out the black curls.
“This material,” she said. “I showed it to one of my colleagues, Jake Brewer. Jake’s a freshwater biologist. Cyanobacteria, he said. What used to be known as blue-green algae. You get it all over the place, on soil, moist rocks, and in lakes and rivers. It should be familiar enough to a fisherman like you. Any time you’ve ever slipped on a stone you’ve found some.”
“Right.”
“Jake’s an expert. He gave me a mini-tutorial on types of cyanobacteria. Some, like Anabaena, can thrive in both salt water and fresh water. He’s fairly sure this one is a freshwater species of the genus Nostoc.”
“Okay. Go on.”
“I asked Jake if it was easy enough to grow it in the laboratory and he said it was, so long as you added the right elements and nutrients. He already had some suitable solution in his fridge and he let me have some. I washed some of your algae by centrifuging it and
re-suspending it in clean water several times. Then I dropped it in the nutrient solution and left it overnight.”
“Why did you want to do that?”
“I’ll show you why.”
She led him back into the lab and over to a bench where she held up a plastic flask. He looked carefully and frowned. The solution inside had an emerald green tinge.
“Was it that colour when you started?”
“No, I’d only added a small amount of the algae so the solution was still clear. But it isn’t any more. That stuff has been growing hand over fist.”
“All right, you’ve proved you can grow it. What’s the point?”
“The point is: I’d washed the sample, so the only thing that had been added to the solution was clean algae. When I started, that solution was odourless. By this morning it was smelling of ammonia.”
He looked at her. “The… algae… is what’s producing the ammonia?”
“Yes. There’s nothing else it could be.”
He shook his head, as if to clear it. “Sorry, I’ve been a bit slow here. I mean, there was so much gas in my sample bottles it escaped under pressure. I never expected a biological organism to do anything like that.”
“You’re right: no normal organism would do that. That’s why I called you over. This organism isn’t normal, Terry; it must be some sort of mutation. And ammonia is a serious pollutant. Has the Environment Agency been informed?”
“Oh yes.”
“Well how come they haven’t picked it up?”
He thought for a moment.
“You know, they probably dealt with their samples straight away – just put them through a standard analysis routine. They didn’t notice the organism because it was only present in tiny amounts. My samples stayed in the bottles for several days before I brought them here so that gave the stuff a chance to multiply and produce the gas. You could well be ahead of them on this.”
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