Alex thumped the microphone to draw attention back to himself. "I should point out that a test application on a cordoned section of the spill, as was done with the fertilizer in Prince William Sound, won't work here. Prometheus is not intended to stay behind barrier tape, but it is a self-limiting organism. Our laboratory tests were successful. The woman from the audience is absolutely correct-every second we delay increases the ecological cost of the spill. We have to make our best attempt and see if it works."

"And what if it doesn't?" a woman from EPA asked.

Alex shrugged. "Then we try something else." He turned at the sound of a scuffle outside the auditorium entrance.

A bearded black man wearing an oil-smeared raincoat pushed his way past two security guards, slapping their hands away. "I pa.s.sed through your metal detector and I'm not carrying any weapons!" he shouted, as if intending to make the audience hear every word. "Let me in!"

On stage, Branson stiffened. The guards tightened near her.

Alex thought he recognized the intruder from one of the news clips he had been watching obsessively since the day after the spill. Harris. Harris. Jackson Harris, the man leading the volunteers on Angel Island. In one hand Harris carried a large plastic garbage bag; stains of crude oil covered his boots and pants. His nostrils flared as he marched to the stage. One of Branson's guards unsnapped his holster. Jackson Harris, the man leading the volunteers on Angel Island. In one hand Harris carried a large plastic garbage bag; stains of crude oil covered his boots and pants. His nostrils flared as he marched to the stage. One of Branson's guards unsnapped his holster.

Harris stepped to the bureaucrats' table, casting his gaze across city council members, designees from the Coast Guard, the Petroleum Industry Response Organization, the Fish and Wildlife Service, the Food and Drug Administration, and the EPA. Then he reached inside his garbage sack.

The representatives shrank back, as if Harris was going to pull out an Uzi. Instead, he lifted a dripping black ma.s.s that might once have had feathers. As he held it in his hand, the shape sprawled out, letting long wings loll down. Thick oil spattered the table, staining the stacked reports.

Harris let the bird drop on the wooden table. A pelican. Its long, rapier beak gaped, as the bird slowly drew its dangling wing back toward its body. It was still alive, but not for long.

"What is this!" An outraged councilman from Sausolito slid his chair back.

"This is what's really going down out there, man. This bird is one of thousands," Harris said. "If you'd get off your fat political a.s.ses and get your hands dirty, you might understand why we're so worked up!" He raised his voice to a shout directed at all of them. "Stop f.u.c.king around and is what's really going down out there, man. This bird is one of thousands," Harris said. "If you'd get off your fat political a.s.ses and get your hands dirty, you might understand why we're so worked up!" He raised his voice to a shout directed at all of them. "Stop f.u.c.king around and do do something!" something!"

He turned toward Alex hiding behind the podium. "You're not talking any germ warfare or genetic-engineering s.h.i.t are you, Mr. Big Oil Company?"

Alex barely shook his head. "No," he whispered. "These are natural bacteria." Though not exactly naturally occurring occurring bacteria, he left unfinished. bacteria, he left unfinished.

Harris turned to the audience. "Oilstar got us into this mess, and we can sue their a.s.ses later-but right now, if they got a solution, how can you not not try it?" He crossed his arms over his slicker. "I'll do it myself, right now, if Oilstar gives me some of their magic oil-eating s.h.i.t. You red-tape lovers can arrest me, but at least something'll get done!" try it?" He crossed his arms over his slicker. "I'll do it myself, right now, if Oilstar gives me some of their magic oil-eating s.h.i.t. You red-tape lovers can arrest me, but at least something'll get done!"

Branson returned to the podium. Alex stepped aside to yield the microphone. The Oilstar CEO seemed determined to show some progress, as if that would be enough to quench the outrage directed against her.

"Thank you, sir, but it's our responsibility," Branson said. "I appreciate the urgency of your concern-we have been forgetting the real effects of this disaster." She took a deep breath. "Oilstar will take the risk . . . and accept the legal consequences. On my authority, Oilstar will will deploy the Prometheus option, using our helicopters, our pilots, our equipment. And we will do it at the earliest possible moment." deploy the Prometheus option, using our helicopters, our pilots, our equipment. And we will do it at the earliest possible moment."

Branson frowned at the dying pelican on the table and at the representatives. "If we encounter any interference from the government in trying to clean up this mess, I personally guarantee you will find the biggest lawsuit in California history right in your lap." Accompanied by her guards, Emma Branson walked with self-a.s.sured dignity off the stage and out the rear exit.

Before attention could return to him, Alex climbed down from the stage. Mitch clapped him on the back. "We got it!"

Alex felt the world growing fuzzy. Branson had set the wheels in motion, but he had fooled her as thoroughly as everyone else. He closed his eyes to shut out the hubbub in the room- but he was left with only the emptiness inside him.

It'll never happen again. That was certain. That was certain.

Chapter 12.

Oilman Todd Severyn crushed a blob of dried seagull-dropping under his work boot, then paced up and down the Oilstar pier that extended into the deep channel in the north Bay. Tankers such as the Zoroaster Zoroaster would hook up to transfer pipes and offload cargo into storage tanks that dotted the hills around the refinery. would hook up to transfer pipes and offload cargo into storage tanks that dotted the hills around the refinery.

The early morning was calm, perfect flying weather. The fog seemed to dissolve in front of Todd's eyes, but he could smell the sour stench of oil on the water long before he could see it.

The Oilstar corporate helicopter, specially outfitted for spraying a fertilizer solution swarming with the Prometheus microbe, waited on the weathered dock. The copter pilot sat in her seat with legs dangling out of the c.o.c.kpit. She looked bored behind mirrored sungla.s.ses; she was getting paid by the hour, even on the ground.

Todd had orders to spray the oil-eating microbe this morning-but if the darned state inspector didn't arrive before the court injunction did, they'd all be hung out to dry. Probably attending a seance or checking the stars to see if the karma is right Probably attending a seance or checking the stars to see if the karma is right, Todd thought. Prissy California sprout-eaters! Prissy California sprout-eaters!

The "suits" were locked in a push-and-shove legal battle over the Prometheus bug. Oilstar insisted on using an observer from the state office of Environmental Policy and Inspection; the EPI in turn had retained a microbiology expert from Stanford University. Getting EPI approval for the fiasco seemed like covering their b.u.t.t with a postage stamp, but Todd wasn't paid to make Oilstar's decisions-just to implement them.

At the land end of the long pier, Dr. Alex Kramer sat inside a metal control shack, which now served as a field command post for the spraying operation. The scientist didn't talk much; with his gla.s.ses, neat gray beard, and thinning gray hair, Alex reminded Todd of his father back at the ranch.

Todd looked at his wrist.w.a.tch again and ambled back to the helicopter. His down vest and new jeans felt hot and stiff and uncomfortable. "Jeez, I wish we could get this show on the road!"

Oilstar had leaked false locations for the spraying operations, which would temporarily fool the reporters, environmental nuts, and regulatory agencies-but they would soon figure it out. Todd wanted to be long gone before then. Never ask permission, as his dad always said; easier to apologize later.

Sometimes he wished he had never left Wyoming, where he could see snow-capped mountains in the distance, blue sky overhead; where he could drive a pickup down endless dirt roads and not see another person for days. He could have made a decent living running his parents' ranch, but he had chosen to go into petroleum engineering instead.

His work for Oilstar took him places no sane person wanted to go: the wasteland of Kuwait, its featureless sand broken only by smoking fires and war wreckage; the cold North Sea, with biting winds and battleship-gray clouds, the ocean whipped into a rabid froth; or the jungles of Indonesia, with bugs the size of rats and humidity thicker than the oil pumped out of the ground.

For some reason the skewed oddness of California bothered him more than any of those places. At first Todd thought his leg was being pulled when somebody told him to wait until the "phase of the Moon" was right for spraying Kramer's microbes. Todd talked around in circles until he finally discovered the official simply meant that the tide tide needed to be in. What a bunch of wackos. needed to be in. What a bunch of wackos.

It made no sense that Branson would thumb her nose at the law by going ahead with the Prometheus spraying . . . and then force Todd to wait for a single inspector and some Stanford observer. Why couldn't they just spray Kramer's little buggies and be done with it? Why make things worse by further delay? People had no common sense in the granola land of "fruits, nuts, and flakes."

At least Todd saw the light at the end of the tunnel, knowing his Oilstar contract would end soon. That was the nice thing about being a consultant. You came in, did the job, raked in the bucks, and got the heck out of Dodge. There might be a lot of c.r.a.p to put up with in the meantime, but he could always go back to Wyoming to clear his head.

In the crisp morning air, the crunching sound of wheels on gravel made him turn to see an old mid-sized sedan toiling up the narrow patchwork road along the water's edge. He saw with relief the p.o.o.p-brown color of all State cars, then spotted a round, intricate seal on the side door. Environmental Policy and Inspection. Shock absorbers creaked as the sedan jounced in potholes, pulled up to the open gate in the chain-link fence, then edged slowly over the b.u.mp onto the Oilstar pier. The driver seemed overly cautious. Todd strode out to meet the car.

The pa.s.senger door popped open, and a pet.i.te young woman stepped out. With long jet-black hair and soft, strikingly attractive Asian features, the inspector was not at all what Todd had expected. He had been prepared for a dumpy business-suited bureaucrat; instead, the woman wore white tennis shoes, jeans, and a comfortable sweatshirt. At least she hadn't arrived in a dress-for-success dark skirt and blouse.

He had the state inspector pegged before she even noticed him: recent liberal arts graduate from some eastern college-Mary Washington, Amherst, Bryn Mawr . . . . She probably wanted to make her mark by uncovering some toxic waste scandal, then she'd move to Washington, D.C. Being Asian, and a woman, this one would keep the Equal Opportunity clowns in ecstasy for years.

She probably hated country & western music, too.

But Todd forced a neutral expression onto his face, ready to do the necessary duty dance, and determined to get the helicopter off the ground. He tipped his cowboy hat. "Excuse me, Ma'am. I'm Todd Severyn, test director for Dr. Kramer. We've got everything prepped here, and we've been waiting for you. As soon as the State inspects the equipment, we can get going." He tried to sound gruff, no nonsense.

Her back to him, the young woman pulled a briefcase out of the car. She straightened and took one long appraising look at his cotton shirt, down vest, his cowboy boots and hat. She seemed to form an a.s.sessment of Todd as quickly as he had made up his mind about her. "You've got the wrong person, Tex."

Tex? Todd frowned. "Excuse me?" Todd frowned. "Excuse me?"

"You're looking for Mr. Plerry."

The driver emerged, straightened his suit, and stepped forward. "Ah, Mr. Severyn?" he said with a faint lisp, extending his hand. The man was paper-thin, mustached, and had immaculately slicked-back hair. "Glad to meet you. I'm Francis Plerry, director for environmental policy. Emma Branson asked me to come here personally-she's an old acquaintance of mine." Plerry cleared his throat and turned to the helicopter for the first time. Todd wanted to wring his neck-this wasn't a tea party.

"Sorry we're late, but I had to swing by Stanford to pick up Dr. Shikozu. She has graciously volunteered to accompany you when the microbes are released. Iris, have you introduced yourself?"

Shikozu cut off more conversation with a quick, impatient gesture. "We don't have time, Mr. Plerry. Judge Steinberg already signed a restraining order, and we need to get up in the air before somebody can get here to deliver it. Let's go, Tex."

Todd narrowed his eyes at the sharp-tongued woman. It wasn't his his fault they were still sitting on the ground. "Well, we've been waiting for fault they were still sitting on the ground. "Well, we've been waiting for you, you, Ma'am." He drew out the "ma'am," knowing it would annoy her. Ma'am." He drew out the "ma'am," knowing it would annoy her.

"Pleased to meet you, too, Tex," she said, taking him aback. The glint in her eye made him wonder if she was intentionally jerking his chain . . . and enjoying it.

Plerry smiled thinly and continued. "Dr. Shikozu is an a.s.sistant professor at Stanford, specializing in microbiology and polymer chemistry. Her expertise will be invaluable in rea.s.suring the public that this is a safe and well-considered action." Shikozu and Todd both looked at him, wondering who Plerry thought he was kidding.

"But getting down to business-?" Shikozu said, crossing her arms over her sweatshirt. Plerry looked fl.u.s.tered at being rushed.

Todd had a difficult time hiding his reflexive grin. "My feelings exactly," he said. "The microbes are in a canister under the c.o.c.kpit. We'll start spraying once you give the word. We estimate it'll take a few hours to cover the entire spill." He directed them to the helicopter. The pilot sat up and climbed back into her c.o.c.kpit.

Shikozu looked Todd in the eye as they stood by the helicopter. "I've tested a frozen sample of Alex Kramer's original microbes as a control back at Stanford. Not having second thoughts, are you?"

Todd felt suddenly warm. "No second thoughts, Ma'am. I just work here, and it's my job to get the spraying done."

"All right." Shikozu bent under the helicopter. "Let's check out the dispersion equipment. Then we can start our work." They squatted under the helicopter's belly as Shikozu studied the apparatus. Todd had no idea what she was looking for.

He glanced up quickly when he heard a pandemonium of cars approaching. A convoy of vehicles honked their horns, winding along the narrow sh.o.r.eline road. A gravel truck from the nearby quarry rumbled to a halt, momentarily blocking the stream of cars.

"Start the rotors!" Todd yelled to the copter pilot. She scrambled with the controls, but he saw nothing happening. Todd threw a glance behind him. The gravel truck ground its gears, but the cars wouldn't stay stopped for long. "What's the problem?"

The pilot kept her head down, running through a checklist. "Give me two minutes and I'll have you in the air."

"Can't you get us up any quicker?"

She reached up and to her left, flicking a switch. "I'll burn out the units if I go faster." A low whine came from the engines.

Todd turned back to Iris. "You'll have to make a decision mighty quick, Ma'am."

"I think all the dispersal systems look adequate." Shikozu straightened. Todd grudgingly gave her credit for sensing the emergency. "Don't you agree, Mr. Plerry?" Her almond eyes widened, and she looked back to the road as the cars drove across the loose gravel outside the chain-link gate. Car doors slammed.

"Uh, yes," Plerry said, stepping back from the helicopter. "It looks fine." He nodded again as if to rea.s.sure himself. The helicopter blades began to rotate slowly.

The vehicles in the convoy were old and battered, Volkswagen beetles, Chevy Novas, Ford vans, many covered with b.u.mper stickers: EARTH FIRST! and SPLIT WOOD, NOT ATOMS!

Iris pulled herself into the helicopter from the pa.s.senger side, scrambling to the back seat. The rotors made a whirring sound like the world's loudest fan. She stuck her head out of the c.o.c.kpit. "Hey, Tex! They're not here to sell you Avon products! Get your b.u.t.t inside-you can gawk all you want from the air."

Todd's cheeks burned that someone else was telling him him to hurry! He clambered in. to hurry! He clambered in.

On the pier, Alex Kramer stepped out of the corrugated metal control shack, looking with blank, astonished eyes at the approaching group of people. He seemed startled at the interruption, then raised his hands as if to surrender.

"Go!" Todd shouted at the helicopter pilot. His pulse raced, as if this were as big a threat as the last time he had leaped into a chopper to escape the sinking Zoroaster Zoroaster.

The pilot popped her gum, eyes invisible behind mirrored sungla.s.ses. "Okay, you're paying for it if I burn anything out. Buckle up."

One man ran ahead of the others on the pier, weaving his way around the debris and equipment piled there. In one hand he gripped a folded piece of paper like a weapon. It was that wacko Jake Torgens, known for pounding spikes into trees to stop lumberjacks. Torgens's words vanished in the increasing roar of the helicopter's rotor. Todd leaned over the side and mouthed, 'I can't hear you!' and pointed first at his ears, then at the helicopter blades.

The pilot pulled back on the control stick, and the copter wobbled as it lifted off the pier. It hung for a moment like a b.u.mblebee before darting higher.

Torgens, clutching the folded paper, put on a burst of speed; for a moment Todd thought he was going to make a leap for the landing strut, like a scene from a James Bond movie. But he pulled up short, shaking a fist at them.

The copter soared away from the Oilstar pier, turning south to fly under the span of the Richmond/San Rafael bridge.

Todd turned to Iris. "I just don't get these guys. They scream at Oilstar to clean up the spill, then they scream when we try to do it." He shook his head. "If we listened to people like that, we'd still be in caves arguing about the dangers of fire."

Iris looked at him with one uplifted eyebrow. He had never seen eyes as dark as hers. "Interesting you should use that a.n.a.logy when we're about to disperse a microbe called Prometheus. Prometheus."

"Right." Todd tried not to show that he didn't know what she meant. "Well, I wish those people would disperse disperse too." too."

The helicopter headed toward the heart of the spill, where they would begin spraying.

Chapter 13.

As Spencer Lockwood's plane descended toward San Francisco International, he watched the tiny, glimmering traffic crawl along the freeways below. Sunlight skated across iridescent rainbows on the oil slick sprawled across the Bay.

He didn't want to be here. He felt like a politician with all the smiling, handshaking, and logrolling he would be required to do with his colleagues at Sandia National Lab in Livermore. "Networking," Nedermyer called it, but it didn't have much to do with actual working. Spencer wished he was back in New Mexico, refining the solar satellite experiment-they had so much a.n.a.lysis and refinements left to do! He was wasting his time.

He mentally slapped his hand for maintaining such a bad att.i.tude. Chin up! It'll all pay off in the end. Right . . .

The other pa.s.sengers craned their heads to see through the scratched double gla.s.s of the jet's windows. Spencer grimaced at how far the oil had spread across the green-blue water. With a satisfied smile, he wished he could go up and down the aisle, whispering the words "Think solar!" into everyone's ears.

He rubbed his eyes and wished the flight attendants would bring another cup of coffee. Spencer hated flying in early, but otherwise he had to give up an extra day for traveling. And whenever Spencer was gone, Rita Fellenstein tinkered with the equipment at the antenna farm. Even though her modifications worked like a charm-most of the time-Spencer didn't like to discover them after the fact.

He heard a whirring thunk thunk beneath the fuselage as the landing gear locked into place. Flight attendants strolled by, s.n.a.t.c.hing napkins and plastic cups. Spencer tucked his briefcase under the seat, holding it with his ankles. Inside were viewgraphs detailing the resounding success of his smallsats over the antenna farm. He couldn't wait to show them off, win a few more supporters, and get back to White Sands. beneath the fuselage as the landing gear locked into place. Flight attendants strolled by, s.n.a.t.c.hing napkins and plastic cups. Spencer tucked his briefcase under the seat, holding it with his ankles. Inside were viewgraphs detailing the resounding success of his smallsats over the antenna farm. He couldn't wait to show them off, win a few more supporters, and get back to White Sands.

Sandia, one of the nation's Big Three national laboratories, had a huge primary facility in Albuquerque on Kirtland Air Force Base; but much of Sandia's alternative energy work took place in their smaller facility in Livermore, California, about an hour's drive east from San Francisco. With discretionary funds, Sandia had paid for part of Spencer's smallsat testbed, as well as the miles-long electromagnetic launcher that ran up Oscura Peak in White Sands.

Spencer's request to speak before the energy gurus at Sandia Livermore seemed an inspired idea. After working as a grad student at Caltech under a n.o.bel laureate, then successfully filing several money-making patents of his own, Spencer considered himself a whiz kid, flaunting his success in the face of stodgy committees. But after Lance Nedermyer's unreasonable skepticism, Spencer decided to become more visible among his colleagues. Working on his own, on a shoestring budget with a bunch of young Turks, he needed validation validation more than anything else. more than anything else.

Spencer sat back in his seat and went over the canned talk in his head. The wreck of the Zoroaster Zoroaster had provided the world's biggest visual aid against dependence on oil. had provided the world's biggest visual aid against dependence on oil.

Car horns blared, tires screeched- Spencer jammed on the brakes, nearly standing up in the rental Mazda. A sudden flash of cold sweat burst over his body. The woman in a blue Mercedes behind Spencer gave him a one-finger salute after she too squealed to a halt.

He took a moment to compose himself, then looked up and down the line of stopped cars. Traffic wasn't moving on the San Mateo Bridge. Cars, camper trucks, flatbeds, vans, and motorcycles had come to a halt in both directions.

Spencer had driven from the airport over the second longest of the five bridges spanning the Bay. While the western end of the San Mateo Bridge rose high to allow large ships pa.s.sage, the rest of the span lay only a few feet above the shallow water, like a road floating on the Bay.

Spencer rolled down his window, but the breeze smelled like a mixture of rotten eggs and burning tires, foul odors from the volatile components of crude oil. Crinkling his nose, he quickly rolled the window back up. He turned up the radio and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He couldn't find any music. News announcers kept talking about the "Zoroaster Disaster," using the rhyming phrase like a slogan; no doubt it would show up on the next cover of Disaster," using the rhyming phrase like a slogan; no doubt it would show up on the next cover of Newsweek Newsweek.

Spencer hated traffic, idiot drivers, honking horns, exhaust fumes. At times like this, he appreciated the long, straight highways in New Mexico, where you could rip open the engine and fly by at a hundred miles an hour, never seeing another soul.

He got out and climbed on top of his white Mazda Protege to see if he could tell where the traffic was held up, but he saw only stopped vehicles. He looked at his watch, wondering if he would ever make his noon meeting at Sandia National Lab. Dammit, he had cut his schedule close, but he should have had enough time-if only he had remembered to allow for traffic snarls.