"Dis haole, lolo pela, him," said Kona. (Meaning, he's just a dumb white guy.)

"Don't talk that shit to me," said the heavier cop. "You want to speak Hawaiian, I'll talk to you in Hawaiian, but don't talk that pidgin shit to me. Now, where's your ID?"

"Back at my cabin."

"Dr. Quinn, your people need to have ID at all times on a research vessel, you know that."

"He's new."

"What's your name, kid?"

"Pelekekona Keohokalole," said Kona.

The cop took off his sunglasses — for the first time ever, Nate thought. He looked at Kona.

"You're not on the permit."

"Try Preston Applebaum," said Kona.

"Are you trying to fuck with me?"

"He is," said Nate. "Just take him in, and on the way take me to our other boat."

"I think we'll tow both of you in and deal with the permit issues when we get into harbor."

Suddenly, amid the static of the marine radio on in the background, Clair's voice: "Nate, are you there? I lost Amy's bubbles. I can't see her bubbles. I need help here! Nate! Anyone!"

Nate looked at the whale cop, who looked at his partner, who looked away.

Kona jumped up on the gunwale of the police boat and leaned into the wiry cop's face. "Can we do the territorial macho power trip after we get our divers out of the water, or do you have to kill two people to show us how big your fucking dicks are?"

Clair ran around the boat searching for Amy's bubble trail, hoping she was just missing it, had lost it in the waves — hoping that it was still there. She looked at the hang tank sitting in the floor of the boat, still unattached to the regulator, then ran back to the radios, keying both the marine radio and the cell-phone radio and trying not to scream.

"SOS here. Please, I'm a couple of miles off the dump, I have divers down, in trouble."

The harbormaster at Lahaina came back, said he'd send someone, and then a dive boat who was out at the lava cathedrals at Lanai said they had to get their divers out of the water but could be there in thirty minutes. Then Nathan Quinn came back.

"Clair, this is Nate. I'm on the way. How long ago did the bubbles stop?"

"Clair checked her watch. Four, five minutes ago."

"Can you see them?"

"No, nothing. Amy went deep, Nate. I watched her go down until she disappeared."

"Do you have hang tanks in the water?"

"No, I can't get the damn regulators on. Clay always did it."

"Just tie off the tanks and tie the regulators to the tanks and get them over the side. Amy and Clay can hook them up if they get to them."

"How deep? I have three tanks."

"Ninety, sixty, and thirty. Just get them in the water, Clair. We'll worry about exact depth when I get there. Just hang them so they can find them. Tie glow sticks on them if you have any. Should be there in five minutes. We can see you."

Clair started tying the plastic line around the necks of the heavy scuba tanks. Every few seconds she scanned the waves for signs of Amy's bubbles, but there weren't any. Nate had said "If they get to them." She blinked away tears and concentrated on her knots. If? Well if Clay made it back — when he made it back — he could damn sure get himself a safer job. Her man wasn't going to drown hundreds of feet under the ocean, because from now on he was going to be taking pictures of weddings or bar mitzvahs or kids at JC Penney's or some goddamn thing on dry land.

Across the channel, near the shore of Kahoolawe, the target island, Libby Quinn had been following the exchange between Clair and Nate over the marine radio. Without being asked, her partner, Margaret, said, "We don't have any diving equipment on board. That deep, there's not much we could do."

"Clay's immortal anyway," said Libby, trying to sound more blasé than she felt. "He'll come up yammering about what great footage he got."

"Call them, offer our help," the older woman said. "If we deny our instincts as caretakers, we deny ourselves as women."

"Oh, fuck off, Margaret! I'm calling to offer our help because it's the right thing to do."

Meanwhile, on the ocean side of Kahoolawe, Cliff Hyland was sitting in the makeshift lab belowdecks in the cabin cruiser, headphones on, watching an oscilloscope readout, when one of his grad students came into the cabin and grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Sounds like Nathan Quinn's group is in trouble," said the girl, a sun-baked brunette wearing zinc-oxide war paint on her nose and cheeks and a hat the size of a garbage-can lid.

Hyland pulled up the headphones. "What? Who? Fire? Sinking? What?"

"They've lost two divers. That photographer guy Clay and that pale girl."

"Where are they?"

"About two miles off the dump. They're not asking for help. I just thought you should know."

"That's a ways. Start reeling in the array. We can be there in a half hour maybe."

Just then Captain Tarwater came down the steps into the cabin. "Stay that order, grommet. Stay on mission. We have a survey to finish today — and a charge to record."

"Those guys are friends of mine," Hyland said.

"I've been monitoring the situation, Dr. Hyland. Our presence has not been requested, and, frankly, there is nothing this vessel could do to help. It sounds like they've lost some divers. It happens."

"This isn't war, Tarwater. We don't just lose people."

"Stay on mission. Any setback in Quinn's operation can only benefit this project."

"You asshole," Hyland said.

Back in the channel, the Count stood in the bow of the big Zodiac and watched as the Conservation and Resources Enforcement boat towed away the Constantly Baffled. He turned to his three researchers, who were trying to look busy in back of the boat. "Let that be a lesson to you all. The key to good science is making sure all the paperwork is in order. Now you can see why I'm such a stickler for you people having your IDs with you every morning."

"Yeah, in case some other researcher rats us out to the Conservation and Resources cops," one woman said.

"Science is a competitive sport, Ms. Wextler. If you're not willing to compete, you're welcome to take your undergrad degree and go baby-sit seasick tourists on a whale-watching boat. Nathan Quinn has attacked the credibility of this organization in the past. It's only fair play that I point out when he is not working within the rules of the sanctuary."

The ocean breeze carried the junior researchers' under-the-breath whispers of «asshole» away from the ears of Gilbert Box, over the channel to wash against the cliffs of Molokai.

Nate wrapped his arms around Clair and held her as she sobbed. As the downtime passed the first half hour, Nate felt a ball of fear, dread, and nausea forming in his own stomach. Only by trying to stay busy looking for signs of Clay and Amy was he able to keep from being ill. When Amy's downtime passed forty-five minutes, Clair started to sob. Clay might have been able to stay down that long with the re-breather, but with only the tiny rescue tank, there was no way Amy could still be breathing. Two divemasters from a nearby tour boat had already used up a full tank each searching. The problem was, in blue water it was a three-dimensional search. Rescue searches were usually done on the bottom, but not when it was six hundred feet down. With the currents in the channel… well, the search was little more than a gesture anyway.

Being a scientist, Nate liked true things, so after an hour he stopped telling Clair that everything was going to be all right. He didn't believe it, and grief was already descending on him like a flight of black arrows. In the past, when he had experienced loss or trauma or heartbreak, some survival mechanism had kicked in and allowed him to function for months before he'd actually begin feeling the pain, but this time it was immediate and deep and devastating. His best friend was dead. The woman that he — Well, he wasn't exactly sure what he'd felt about Amy, but even when he looked past the sexuality, the differences in their ages and positions, he liked her. He liked her a lot, and he'd become used to her presence after only a few weeks.