Free Float by Joeann Hart

wouldn’t want to do anything illegal, would you?” Osbert crossed his legs and flung one arm over the back of the chair, and Duncan felt the springs of his own chair dig deeper into his bottom.
    “We are completely legal,” Duncan said. “In fact, the costs of legality have nearly sunk us. I spent all that money for emissions controls in time for fish landings to go down because of tighter regulations. No more fish, no more fish waste.”
    “That’s bad,” Osbert said. He looked out at the water, keeping the unlit cigar grasped between two knuckles. “But you could make fertilizer out of anything, couldn’t you? I just read that a Swedish biologist developed a method of burial that turns the human body into organic matter in weeks.”
    Duncan was not sure if he was supposed to laugh. “Well, the thing is, our profit margins are so small that the raw material has to be free to begin with. In fact, most of the big boats pay us to take the gurry off their hands. We also have a nice seaweed product. But it doesn’t launch until spring, and we’re a little unsure of the market.”
    “We must never confuse the invisible hand of the market with the hand of God, Leland. Certainly you can dehydrate any sort of waste?”
    Again, Duncan was not sure what this man’s point was. “It has to have high organic value, and it has to be from the sea.” Duncan waved the binoculars at the water. “There’s a moratorium on non-marine use on the waterfront”—he snorted—“as if fishing were coming back. I can’t even sell the building for condos.”
    Osbert put the cigar in his mouth and stared back up at the ceiling as he rocked. They were silent for a minute, and, other than the squeaking of the rocker, the only sound was the soft wash of water hitting the rocks.
    “What’s the biggest piece of garbage your machinery can handle, Leland? Maybe we could do some business together.”
    “Whatever biomass fits through the chute.” Duncan held his hands out about two feet apart. “It goes down to the grinder, then off to vats of emulsifier to dissolve before being dehydrated into dust.” He paused to consider what sort of disposal issues a gravel company could have. “It can’t handle stone,” he said uncertainly.
    “But bone,” Osbert said, tipping the rocker forward toward Duncan and expelling his breath in his direction. “It could do bone.”
    Duncan leaned back. “Well, it does fish bone. There used to be a big market for the bones to make mucilage, but those days are gone.”
    “Oh, the little brown bottles of glue in kindergarten,” said Osbert, closing his eyes. “With those soft rubber tips. I can still remember the smell.” He inhaled deeply.
    “I can still remember the taste.” Duncan smacked his lips.
    Osbert opened his eyes and stared out into the distance. “I loved kindergarten. I remember Miss Hildenfisch leaning over with her hand over mine to show me how to make my alphabet.” Then he turned and looked at Duncan as if he was just remembering he was there. “So, Leland, when the gurry gets loaded into the chute, who sees it?”
    His question implied something unwholesome, but Duncan gave it serious thought. “The whole operation is fitted and sealed now so that nothing can be seen—or smelled.” He did not say that, with the right key, you could also open the hatch and drop in, oh, say, a couple of dead birds. It would have been disastrous if the New Adoniram Project camera had followed him and Josefa to the other side of the building and filmed their dark work. They had to be more careful from now on, what with people running around with phone cameras and YouTube accounts.
    “Leland, we might be able to help one another,” said Osbert. He held the cigar gently, as if he were protecting a long, firm ash. “After all, fish aren’t the only fish in the sea.” He smiled at his own joke.
    A gun went off, and Duncan nearly sprang out of his chair. The race was over. He settled back,