Part 28 (2/2)

Rachael leaned over to look down at her mother. ”I play as the mood takes me. I know that's not very sci- entific.” Her mouth twisted. ”But it's aesthetic.”

”I don't want to argue about it, Rachael.” Cora turned back to her study of the burnt bit of material.

”Then why did you bring it up?” Rachael contin-

121.

122 CACHALOT.

ued to play and Cora continued to s.h.i.+ver, saying nothing.

Merced was sitting beneath Rachael, Just under the overhang of the upper deck. He was laboriously ex- amining a huge pile of water-damaged tape fragments.

Cora wondered what he hoped to find in that ma.s.sive, messy mound of communications numbers, personal histories, pay charts, and medical records. He con- fessed quite frankly that he wasn't sure, but at least the information was varied, and more relaxing than going cross-eyed picking through chunks of torn metal and plastic. She could sympathize. He was obviously frustrated, too.

Mataroreva came up from below. Since he wasn't directly involved in the research, he should have been more bored than any of them, what with nothing to do beyond seeing to the maintenance of the Caribe. But he was relaxed, even appeared to be enjoying himself.

While they studied, he dove and recovered additional artifacts, concentrating on the edge of the reef where he had forbidden them to travel. There were large pelagic predators out there, where reef gave way to open sea, and he preferred not to have his charges tempt them. And he only hunted there himself when accompanied by the two orcas.

Now he looked over Cora's Shoulder, noting her discomfort. ”I've got to admit her current choice of dendritones doesn't lighten my day, either. How about a dive? Not for work this time, for a change. Just to relax.”

”I can't,” she told him. ”Just because we're having a hard time doesn't mean we aren't making any pro- gress.”

”Really? You're making progress, then?”

”Well... take this piece of burnt fabric here.”

Mataroreva looked at it. ”So?”

”Don't you see that?” She paused, eyed it herself, then looked over at the knee-high ridge of similar

123.

fragments. She saw no answers there, only additional frustration.

Then she picked up the bit of water-soiled material, wadded it into a ball, and threw it angrily over the side of the s.h.i.+p. ”You can take it and do what you want with it! To h.e.l.l with it-let's go!”

”That's the spirit!” He moved to don his gelsuit.

No, it isn't, she thought exhaustedly. She didn't have much spirit left.

The strains of the sobbing Trans-Carlson tune fol- lowed her over the side, and the neuronic projections tickled her for several meters more. Then they were out of the instrument's preset range. Once more she was cruising among the delicate hexalate formations.

Sam continued to point out unusual examples of Cachalot life as they encountered them. There hadn't been much time for such sightseeing in days past. He spotted one advanced variety of pseudoworm, far more spectacular than any of the Terran nudibranchs that were its closest visual relative, fluttering in and out among the reef formations. It was about half a meter in length and swam with an incredible supple- ness. Hundreds of long, thin streamers trailed from its flanks. The feathery filaments were a rich azure blue, spotted with yellow and pink.

”Gorgeous,” Cora muttered, overwhelmed as she had so often been already by the endless beauty of this world.

”That's not all. Watch.” Sam kicked on ahead, ran a finger down the creature's slowly rippling ventral side. A thin, cloudy pink fluid filled the water around it.

She winced instinctively. ”Protective mechanism?”

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