"So if you backtracked you might be able to determine where they were when they died. You'd have to consider traveling and feeding time and currents of course." He shook his head. "Too bad the whales can't tell us where they've been."

Witherell chuckled. "Who says they can't tell us? C'mon, I'll show you."

The EPA man led the way past the flatbeds around the puddles of bloody water being hosed into drains. The smell was like a sledgehammer this close to the dead whales, but Witherell didn't seem to be bothered.

"This is the male," he said, stopping by the first carcass. "You can see why they're called gray whales. The skin is naturally dark, but it's blotched from barnacle scars and whale lice. He's a bit chopped up now. When we first measured him he was forty one feet." They walked to the next flatbed which held a miniaturized version of the first whale. "This calf is also a male, born just a few months ago. There were other calves so we don't know if it belonged to the female." They had paused before the last flatbed. "She's bigger than the male. Like the others, she's got no outward signs of any bruise or laceration that might be fatal. This is what might interest you." He borrowed a knife from a colleague, climbed onto the flatbed, and bent over the whale's fin. After a minute he hopped down and handed Austin a flat square packet of metal and plastic.

"A transponder?" Austin said.

Witherell pointed up. "This old girl's every move was being tracked by satellite. Find out who's been keeping an eye on her, and that person should be able to tell you where she has been and when."

"You're a genius, Mr. Witherell."

"Only a humble government servant like you, trying to do my job." He hefted the transponder. "I'll have to hold on to this thing, but there's a number to call on the back."

Austin jotted the number down in a small notebook and thanked the pathologist for his help.

As Witherell escorted him back to the door, Austin said, "By the way, how'd you choose these particular whales?"

"It was done pretty much by chance. I asked the Navy to cut three representative animals out of the batch. I guess there was somebody on board who actually listened to my request."

"Do you think you would have been more likely to find a cause of death if you had a chance to autopsy the other corpses?"

"I doubt it," Witherell said flatly. "What killed these whales killed the others that were towed away. It's a bit late for that anyhow. From what I understand, after the Navy got through with them there wasn't enough left of the other animals for a plate of sushi."

More autopsy humor. Tossing his surgical mask into a barrel, Austin took a last look at the butchered carcasses that were the sad remains of once magnificent sea creatures. He thanked Witherell and Seaman Cummings and stepped out into the fresh night air. He gulped in several deep breaths, as if he could purge his memory as well as his lungs of the rank smell. Across the harbor sparkled the city-like lights of an aircraft carrier. He drove back to the hotel and walked quickly through the lobby, but not fast enough to avoid a few nose wrinkles from the staff and guests who had picked up the stench of death.

Back in his room Austin threw the khakis and dress shirt he'd been wearing into a laundry bag. He took a long, hot shower, shampooed twice, and changed into slacks and a golf shirt. Then he settled into a comfortable chair, picked up the phone, and dialed the number marked on the transponder. As he expected he was connected to voice mail. The government wouldn't pay someone to sit around and wait for news of a meandering whale. It might take days before someone answered his call. He left no message and instead called a twenty-four-hour desk at NUMA headquarters outside Washington and put in a request. The phone rang about a half hour later.

"Mr. Austin? My name is Wanda Perelli. I'm with the Interior Department. Someone called from NUMA and said you were looking for me. They said it was important."

"Yes, thanks for calling. I'm sorry to bother you at home. You heard about the gray whales off California?"

"Yes. I was wondering how you got my number."

"It was on a transponder attached to the fin of a female whale."

"Oh dear, that was Daisy. It was her pod. I've been tracking her for three years. She's almost like a relative."

"I'm sorry to hear that. There were fourteen whales in all. She was one of those picked at random."

She sighed loudly. "This is terrible news. We've tried so hard to protect the grays, and they've really been making a comeback. We're waiting for a forensics report on cause of death."

"I came from the necropsy a little while ago. Apparently there was no sign of a virus or pollutant. The whales died from lung damage caused by intense heat. Have you ever heard of such a thing happening?"

"No. Never. Does anyone know the source of this heat?"

"Not yet. I thought it might shed some light on the incident if we knew where the whales had been recently."

"I'm pretty familiar with Daisy's pod. Their migration is re ally quite remarkable. They make a ten-thousand-mile round trip. They feed all summer in the Arctic seas, then head south along the Pacific Coast to the breeding lagoons in Baja California, Mexico. They start moving around November and December and get there early the following year. The pregnant females lead the way, then the mature adults and the juveniles, in single file or in pairs. They go pretty close to the shoreline. They start back north in March. The whales with calves may wait until April. Again they follow the coastline closely on the

way north. They go real slow, about ten miles an hour on the average."

"There was a briefing before the boat race. We were told to keep a watch for whales, but the race had been scheduled after the last pod had passed. As far as anyone knew there were no whales in the vicinity."

"The only thing I can think of is that they were stragglers. Maybe one of the calves became sick and they dallied some where until the calves were well."

"The pathologist had the same theory. Would you have kept track of their migration?"

"Yes. Do you have access to a laptop computer?"

"Wouldn't be without it."

"Good. Give me your e-mail address. I'll tap into the data base and get the information to you at light speed."

"Thank you. Can't ask for better service than that."

"You might get the chance to pay me back if we call on NUMA for help."

"Call me personally, and we'll do what we can."

"Thanks. Oh, God, I still can't believe it about Daisy."

Austin hung up, opened his IBM laptop computer, and hooked it up to the telephone. After fifteen minutes passed he opened his e-mail file. A map of the western U.S., Canada, and Alaska appeared. A dotted line ran down from the Chukchi Sea, through the Bering Sea, then along the coast of North America to the tip of the fingerlike Baja Peninsula. The map was labeled "General Whale Migration Route."

Attached to the map was specific information on actual pods. Austin scrolled down until he found the file name "Daisy." The file linked to a map showing the exact route of the Daisy pod. The pod had made steady progress, then had stopped off the Baja coast south of Tijuana. After a pause they started north again, moving slower than before. At one point they looped around as if they were disoriented. He followed their tortuous path until it stopped off San Diego.