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international weapons systems, the ones always remaindered for $3.98. He had a whole shelf of them. He went up on weekends and played the Survival Game in New Hampshire, running around in the woods shooting paint pellets at other frustrated elements.
    â€œYachts are made out of fiberglass, Dolmacher. A magnetic mine wouldn’t stick.”
    â€œStill sarcastic, huh, S.T.?” He pronounced the word as if it were a mental illness. “Except now you’re doing it professionally.”
    â€œCan I help it if the Groveler lacks a sense of humor?”
    â€œI don’t work for Basco any more.”
    â€œOkay, I’m stunned. Whom are you working for?”
    â€œWhom? I’m working for Biotronics, that’s whom.”
    Big deal. Biotronics was a wholly owned subsidiary of Basco. But the work was impressive.
    â€œGenetic engineering. Not bad. You work with the actual bugs?”
    â€œSometimes.”
    Dolmacher dropped his guard the minute I started asking him about his job. No change at all since our days at B.U. He was so astounded by the coolness of Science that it acted on him like an endorphin.
    â€œWell,” I said, “remember not to pick your nose after you’ve had your hands in the tank, and enjoy your lunch. I’ve got samples to take.” I turned around.
    â€œYou should come to work for Biotronics, S.T. You’re far too intelligent for what you’re doing.”
    I turned back around because I was pissed off. He had no idea how difficult… but then I noticed him looking sincere. He actually wanted me to work with him.
    The old school ties, the old dormitory ties, they’re resilient. We’d spent four years at B.U. talking at each other like this, and a couple years more on opposite sides of the toxic barricades. Now he wanted me to rearrange genes with him. I guess when you’ve come as far as he had, you feel a little lonely. Way out there on the frontiers of science, it hurts when a former classmate keeps firing rock salt into your butt.
    â€œWe’re working on a process you’d be very interested in,” he continued. “It’s like the Holy Grail, as far as you’re concerned.”
    â€œDolmacher, party of four?” demanded the maitre d’.
    â€œIf you ever want to talk about it, I’m in the book. North Suburban. Living in Medford now.” Dolmacher backed away from me and into the dining room. I just stared at him.
    Up at our locker I picked up an empty picnic cooler. My deal with the cook was that he’d fill it up with free ice if I told him a dirty joke, a transaction that went smoothly. Then out and across the docks to our little grease pit.
    The tide was out so I had to use the rope ladder to get down into the Zodiac. As soon as you drop below the level of the pier, the city and the sun disappear and you’re dangling in a jungle of algae-covered pilings, like Tarzan sliding down a vine into a swamp.
    It’s not doing a Zodiac justice to call it an inflatable raft. A Zodiac has design. It has hydrodynamics. It’s made to go places. The inflatable part is horseshoe-shaped. The bend of the horseshoe is in front, and it’s pointed; the prongs point backwards, tapering to cones. The floor of the craft is made of heavy interlocking planks and there’sa transom in back, to keep the water out and to hold the motor. If you look at the bottom of a Zodiac, it’s not just flat. It’s got a hint of a keel on it for maneuverability.
    Not a proper hull, though. Hull design is an advanced science. In the days of sail it was as important to national security as aerodynamics are now. A hull was a necessary evil: all that ship down under the water gave you lots of drag but without it the rest of the ship wouldn’t float.
    Then we invented outboard motors and all that science was made irrelevant by raw power. You could turn a bathtub into a high-performance speedboat by bolting a big enough