"Irie, ice cream man."

"You're on my shoes."

"What happened?" asked Cliff Hyland, coming down the dock behind the captain.

"Clay's boat's gone," said Amy.

Cliff moved up and put his hand on Clay's shoulder. "Maybe someone just borrowed it." Clay nodded, acknowledging that Cliff was trying to comfort him, but comfort fell like sandwiches on the recently bombed.

By the time Quinn returned from the harbormaster's office with a Maui cop in tow, there were a half dozen biologists, three black-coral divers, and a couple from Minnesota who were taking pictures of the whole thing, thinking that this would be something they would want to remember if they ever found out what was happening. As the cop approached, the black-coral divers faded to the edges of the crowd and away.

Jon Thomas Fuller, the scientist/entrepreneur who was accompanied by three of his cute female naturalists, stepped up beside Quinn. "This is just horrible, Nate. Just horrible. That boat represented a major capital investment for you guys, I'm sure."

"Yeah, but mainly we liked to think of it as something that floated and moved us around on the water." Nate actually had a great capacity for sarcasm, but he usually reserved it for those things and people he found truly irritating. Jon Thomas Fuller was truly irritating.

"Going to be tough to replace it."

"We'll manage. It was insured."

"You might want to get something bigger this time. I know there's a measure of safety working off of these sixty-five-footers we have, but also with the cabin you can set up computers, bow cameras, a lot of things that aren't really possible on little speedboats. A good-size boat would add a lot of legitimacy to your operation."

"We sort of decided to go with the legitimacy we get from doing credible research, Jon Thomas."

"We didn't make those figures up." Fuller caught himself raising his voice. The cop interviewing Clay looked over his shoulder, and Fuller lowered his tone. "That was just professional jealousy on the part of our detractors."

"Your detractors were the facts. What did you expect when your paper concluded that humpbacks actually enjoyed being struck by Jet Skis?"

"Some do." Fuller pushed back his pith helmet and ventured a smile of sincerity, which collapsed under its own weight.

"What's your angle, Jon Thomas?"

"Nate, I can get you a boat like ours, with all the trimmings, and an operating budget, and you'd just have to do one little project for me. One season of work, maximum. And your operation can keep the boat, sell it, do whatever you want."

Unless Fuller was about to ask him to shove him off the dock into the oily water, Quinn pretty much knew he was going to turn down the offer, but he had to ask. Those were really nice boats. "Make your proposal."

"I need you to put your name on a study that says that human-dolphin interaction facilities are not harmful to the animals, and do a study that says that building one at La Perouse Bay wouldn't have a negative impact on the environment. Then I'd need you to stand up at the appropriate meetings and make the case."

"I'm not your guy, Jon Thomas. First, I'm not a dolphin guy, and you know that." Nate avoided adding what he wanted to say, which was Second, you are a feckless weasel out to make a buck without any consideration for science or the animals you study. Instead he said, "There are dozens of people doing studies on captive dolphins. Why don't you go to them?"

"I have the animal study. You don't have to do the study. I just want your name on it."

"Won't the people who actually did the study have some objection to that?"

"No. They'll be fine with it. I need your name and your presence, Nate."

"I don't think so. I can't see myself testifying before impact committees and county planning boards."

"Okay, fair enough. Clay or Amy can do the stand-ups. Just put your name on the paper and do the environmental impact study. I need the credibility of your name."

"Which I won't have as soon as I let you use me. I'm sorry, but my name is all I really have to show for twenty-five years of work. I can't sell it out, even for a really nice boat."

"Oh, right, the nobility of starvation. Fuck that, Nate, and fuck your high ideals. I'm doing more for these animals by exposing the public to them than you'll do in a lifetime of graphing out songs and recording behavior. And before you retire to your ivory tower on the ethical high ground, you'd better take a good look at your people. That kid is a common thief, and no one has ever heard of your precious new assistant." Fuller turned and signaled to his chorus line of whalettes that they were going to their boat.

Quinn looked for Amy, saw her on the other side of the cop who was talking to Clay, helping him fill in details. He ran up behind Fuller, grabbed the smaller man's arm, and spun him around. "What are you talking about? Amy studied at Woods Hole, with Tyack and Loughten."

"That right? Well, maybe you'd better give them a call and ask them. Because they've never heard of her. Despite what you think, I do my research, Nate. Do you? Now, get back to your one-boat operation, would you."

"If I find out you had anything to do with this…"

Fuller wrenched his arm out of Quinn's grip and grinned. "Right, you'll what? Become more irrelevant? Screw you, Nate."

"What did you say?"

But Fuller ignored him and boarded his million-dollar research vessel, while Quinn skulked back down the dock to his friends. Oily flotsam seemed to be losing its allure, however, and the crowd had dispersed somewhat, leaving only Amy, Clay, the cop, and the couple from Minnesota.

"You. You're somebody aren't you?" asked the woman as Nate walked up. "Honey, this guy is someone. I remember seeing him on the Discovery Channel. Get my picture with him."

"Who is he?" said «honey» as his wife took Nate by the arm and posed like he'd just handed her a check.

"I don't know, one of those ocean guys," she said through a grin, acting as if she were posing with one of the carved statues that decorated doorways around Lahaina. "Just take the picture."

"Are you one of those Cousteau fellas?"

"Oui," said Nate. "Now I muss speak with my good fren' Sylvia Earle," he continued in his French-by-way-of-British-Columbia-and-Northern-California fake accent as he went over to Amy. "I need to talk to you."

"Sylvia Earle! She's a National Geographic person. Get their picture together, honey."

"He's lying, Nathan," Amy said. "You can check if you want. It was all on the resume I gave to Clay." She didn't appear angry, just hurt, betrayed perhaps. Her eyes were huge and teary, and she was starting to look vaguely like one of those creepy Keane sad-eyed-kid pictures. Quinn felt like he'd just smacked a bag of kittens against a truck bumper.

"I know," he said. "I'm sorry. I just… well, Jon Thomas is an asshole. I let him get to me."

"It's okay," Amy sniffed. "It's just… just… I've worked so hard."

"I don't need to check, Amy. You do good work. My fault for doubting you. Let's get Clay squared away and get to work."

He tentatively put his arm around her and walked her back to where Clay was finishing up his interview with the cop. Clay saw the tear tracks down Amy's face and immediately took her in his arms and pressed her head to his shoulder. "I know, honey. I know. It was a great boat, but it was just a boat. We'll get another one."

"Where's Kona?" Nate asked.

"He was around here a second ago," said Clay.

Just then Nate's cell phone rang. He worked it out of his shirt pocket and answered it. "Nathan, it's me," said the Old Broad. Nate covered the mouthpiece. "It's the Old Broad," Nate said to Clay.

"Amy, you go round up Kona while I finish up with the officer, okay?" Clay said.