Franklin.”
“Thanks. Maybe he could use Prospect’s reputation against them. The so-called revelations would backfire. Bob could explain what the out-of-context phrases really mean.”
“I like it. And so will he, I suspect.” He gave me Bob’s email and phone number, then stood. “I don’t think anything’s out about the Prospect Institute and climate researchers’ emails.”
“Some buzz on the usual denial blogs, but that’s it. So Bob might go for this.”
“Good luck. Gotta go. I’ve got papers to review and cruise data to look at.”
I thanked Ted, and he headed to his office. Things were looking up. Ted might become a friend, and the idiots at Prospect might get what they deserved.
I called the Portland Ledger and reached Franklin right away. He was excited about my take—how the Institute had turned our scientific conversations into nefarious-sounding smoking guns.
“The editor forwarded the email to me,” he said. “I looked at their website. It screams bias against climate change research. So I need to talk to scientists on the list. Really glad you called.”
A half-hour later, he had his headline, lead, and story. Instead of exposing climate change researchers as manufacturers of fiction, the Ledger piece would show how Prospect misused our words and phrases to promote their agenda. Done well, the article would educate people about the doubters.
“What about the other papers?” I asked.
“Nothing’s come out. I assume other reporters are doing the same thing. Checking the facts.”
I hung up, grinning. This was the first good thing to happen in days.
Two items topped my immediate to-do list: contact John Hamilton and work on the cruise data and NOAA proposal. I called Sunnyside to see if I could visit the following day. The aquaculture facility’s receptionist said Mr. Hamilton was out on the restricted pier—whatever that meant. Five minutes later he called back. No, tomorrow wouldn’t work.
I’d have to drive up there today.
BY MID-MORNING I WAS ON Route 1 North heading to Sunnyside Aquaculture. Maine’s coast still clung to winter hibernation, and I zipped past forlorn lobster shacks, ice cream stands, and pottery shops with empty parking lots.
When we spoke on the phone, Hamilton bought my excuse—oceanography students’ fascination with Maine aquaculture. Somehow I’d insert questions I really wanted him to address.
South of Winslow Bay, a big sign bordered with intertwined seaweed announced “Sunnyside Aquaculture” in gold letters. A half-mile driveway snaked through spruce forest and ended at an impressively large gray-shingled, two-story building. I pulled open a wooden front door, stepped into the lobby, and gasped. A ring of skylights illuminated a floor tiled in a blue and tan fish motif. Paintings depicting marine scenes hung on cream-colored walls, and an enormous cherry art deco desk gleamed at the far end of the lobby. I turned slowly, taking it in. All this money had to come from somewhere.
The receptionist seated behind the desk stood. “Welcome to Sunnyside, Dr. Tusconi. Mr. Hamilton is waiting for you.”
She pointed to a tiled stairway leading to the second floor where John Hamilton greeted me at the top of the stairs. I’d spoken to him for only a moment on the ship and driving up could barely remember a thing about him. Hamilton was shorter than I recalled—hardly more than five feet—with thinning brown hair combed straight back, revealing streaks of pink scalp. As he shook my hand, I examined his face. There was nothing compelling about the man except for his brown, almost black eyes where a spark hinted of intelligence and determination.
I followed John Hamilton into his office. The room was cozier than the reception area.
He pointed to a large picture window. “Aquaculture tanks. You can see ’em from there.”
We stood looking out of the window. Hamilton tossed a pencil from one hand to the other. Below, five piers easily fifty feet long stuck out into the water. Each supported two rows of cylindrical tanks in various shades of green, red, and yellow-brown, fifteen or more feet in diameter. Water boiled up inside the tanks. Some spilled over the sides, running onto the pier.
Inside each tank lived millions of cells of a single species of algae—microscopic plants at the bottom of the marine food chain. The algae that grew the fastest, providing the greatest amount of mass in the shortest time, would be the winner. The so-called super-seaweed.
I spotted the likely candidate. On the leftmost pier, four tanks looked remarkably green. Wizard of Oz green. They were a vibrant emerald, almost glowing. Super indeed—and bizarre. I couldn’t wait to see the tanks up close.
Beyond the piers, odd-looking white pods bounced in the waves.
“My, an impressive operation,” I said.
Hamilton looked down. “Indeed.” This was clearly a favorite spot for him.
“Tell me what you do here. The algae you grow, nature of your work. That kind of thing.”
He gave the pencil another toss, catching it in his right hand. “Come. Show you the lab.”
Back downstairs, Hamilton led me into a bright, well-equipped laboratory. Expensive scientific equipment—large microscopes, instruments for aquatic chemical analyses, an array of glassware—lined three sides of the expansive room. He directed me to sizeable walk-in incubators on the fourth wall, pulled a handle, and ushered me in.
“Here we experiment with algal cultures.”
Glass vats six feet tall sat neatly side by side—some bright red, others shades of green and rusty brown. Banks of bright lights hung over the vats, which bubbled with air delivered by intertwining arrays of plastic tubes.
The room was alive with light, gurgling water, and color.
I whistled. “This is amazing. In this chamber alone, you’re growing what, six algal species?”
“More. And there’s two other growth chambers.”
“John, if you spoke to my oceanography students about growing algae, what would you say?”
He explained the basics of algal aquaculture—that algae needed a good deal of light, the right nutrients, and well-circulated water. I knew all of this but nodded encouragement to be polite.
When he finished, I said, “Ah, this is pretty expensive. Do you have grants? Investors?”
“Both.”
I waited for more, but he only led me back into the lab. He gestured toward the lab equipment. “You need no introduction to this.”
Hamilton headed toward the door leading to the lobby.
I pointed toward the bay. “But what about the piers? The tanks outside look fascinating.”
He stopped and turned
