'I get the picture.' Anawak grinned. 'Tracking twenty thousand whales is easy by comparison.'

'Do you see now how a job like mine can make you old and grey? It's like trying to prove the existence of a teeny-weeny fish by straining the ocean litre by litre. And, remember, fish don't keep still. There's a good chance that you'll strain forever and decide in the end that the fish was never there. Yet all the while it was swimming along with thousands of others – just always somewhere else. Phoenix can strain several litres at once, but it's still limited to, say, the Georgia Strait. Do you see what I'm getting at? There are civilizations out there, but I can't prove it. The universe is big, maybe infinite – the observatory's drinks dispenser can brew coffee stronger than our chances.'

Anawak thought for a moment. 'Didn't NASA send a message into space?'

'Oh, that.' Her eyes flashed. 'You mean, why don't we get off our butts and start making some noise of our own? Well, you're right. In 1974 NASA sent a binary message from Arecibo to M13, a globular star cluster a mere twenty-one thousand light years away. But the essential problem remains the same: whether a signal comes from us or from somebody else, all it can do is wander through interstellar space. It would take an amazing coincidence for someone to intercept it. Besides, it's cheaper for us to listen than transmit.'

'Even so, it would improve your chances.'

'Maybe we don't want that.'

'Why not?' Anawak was bewildered.

'Well, at SETI we want to, but plenty of folk would rather we didn't draw attention to ourselves. If other civilizations knew we were here, they might rob us of our planet. God help us, they might even eat us for breakfast.'

'But that's ridiculous.'

'Is it? If they're clever enough to manage interstellar travel, they're probably not interested in fisticuffs. On the other hand, it's not something we can rule out. In my view, we'd be better off thinking about how we could be drawing attention to ourselves unintentionally, otherwise we could make the wrong impression.'

Anawak was silent. Eventually he said, 'Don't you ever feel like giving up?'

'Who doesn't?'

'And what if you achieve your goal?'

'Good question.' Briefly Crowe was lost in thought. 'For years now I've been wondering what our goal really is. I think if I knew the answer I'd probably quit – an answer is always the end of a search. Maybe we're tortured by the loneliness of our existence, by the idea that we're just a freak of nature, the only ones of our kind. Or maybe we want to prove that there's no one else out there so we have the right to occupy a privileged position. I don't know. Why do you study whales and dolphins?'

I'm just. . . interested.' But that's not quite true, he thought. It's more than an interest … So what am I looking for?

Crowe was right. They were doing much the same thing, listening for signals and hoping for answers. They both had a deep-seated longing for the company of intelligent beings other than humans.

She seemed to know what he was thinking. 'Let's not con ourselves,' she said. 'We're not really interested in other forms of intelligent life. We want to know what their existence might mean for us.' She leaned back and smiled. 'I guess we're just looking for meaning.'

IT WAS NEARLY HALF past ten when they said goodbye after a drink in the lounge – bourbon for Crowe and water for Anawak. Outside, the clouds had dispersed and the sky was scattered with myriad twinkling stars. For a while they gazed up at it.

'I hope you find your whales,' she said at last.

I'll let you know, Sam.'

'They're lucky to have you as a friend. You've a good heart.'

'You can't know that!'

'In my line of work, knowing and believing share a wavelength.'

They shook hands.

'Maybe we'll meet again as orcas,' Anawak joked.

'Why?'

'The Kwakiutl Indians believe that if you lead a good life you'll return as an orca.'

I like the sound of that' Crowe grinned. 'Do you believe it?'

'Of course not.' 'But I thought…'

'You thought?' he said, although he knew without asking.

'That you were Indian.'

Anawak felt himself stiffen. Then he saw himself through her eyes: a man of medium height and stocky build, with wide cheekbones, copper skin, almond eyes and thick, shiny black hair that fell across his forehead. 'Something like that,' he said awkwardly.

Crowe glanced at him. Then she pulled out a packet of cigarettes, lit one and took a long drag. 'Another of my obsessions,' she remarked, blowing smoke. 'Look after yourself, Leon.'

Norwegian Coast and North Sea

Sigur Johanson heard nothing from Tina Lund for a week, during which he stood in for another professor, who'd been taken ill, and wrote an article for National Geographic. He also contacted an acquaintance who worked for the distinguished wine producers Hugel Fils in Riquewihr, Alsace, and arranged to be sent a few vintage bottles. In the meantime, he tracked down a 1959 vinyl recording of the Ring Cycle, conducted by Sir Georg Solti, which, with the wine, pushed his study of Lund's worms to the back of his mind.

It was nine days after their meeting when Lund finally called. She was in good spirits.

'You sound laid-back,' said Johanson. 'I hope that's not affecting your scientific judgment.'

'Highly likely,' she said.

'Explain.'

'All in good time. Now, listen: the Thorvaldson sets sail for the continental slope tomorrow. We'll be sending down a dive robot. Do you want to come?'

Johanson ran through a mental checklist of his commitments. 'In the morning I have to familiarise students with the sex appeal of sulphur bacteria.'

'That's no good. The boat leaves at the crack of dawn.'

'From where?'

'Kristiansund.'

'It was a good hour away by car on a wind-blown, wave-battered stretch of rocky coast to the south-west of Trondheim. There was an airport nearby, from which helicopters flew out to the many oil rigs crammed along the North Sea continental shelf and the Norwegian Trench.

'Can I join you later?' he asked.

'Maybe,' Lund said. 'In fact, that's not a bad idea – and there's no reason why I shouldn't go later too. What are you doing the day after?'

'Nothing that can't be postponed.'

'Well, that's settled. If we stay on board overnight, we'll have plenty of time for observations and evaluating the results. We can get the helicopter to Gullfaks and take the transfer launch from there.'

'Where shall we meet?' asked Johanson.

'Sveggesundet, at the Fiskehuset. Do you know it?'

'The restaurant on the seafront, next to the timber church?'

'Exactly.'

'Shall we say three?'

'Perfect. I'll get the helicopter to pick us up from there.' She paused. 'Any news on the worms?'

'Not yet, but I may have something tomorrow.'

He put down the phone and frowned. It was puzzling to see a new species within an ecosystem as well researched as this one. But it makes sense for them to be there, thought Johanson. If they're related to the ice worm, they must depend indirectly on methane. And methane deposits were present on every continental slope, the Norwegian slope included.

But it was odd all the same.

The taxonomic and biochemical findings would resolve the matter. Until then there was no reason why he shouldn't continue to research Hugel's Gewurztraminers. Unlike worms, they couldn't be found everywhere – not in that particular vintage, at least.

WHEN HE GOT TO work the next morning he found two envelopes bearing his name. He glanced at the taxonomic reports, stuffed them into his briefcase and set off for his lecture.