There it is again! There's a spectral smell haunting this industrial harbour. And it…

There it is again! There's a spectral smell haunting this industrial harbour. And it smells like...

Heavy fuel oil, mostly. Because it's an industrial harbour.

Years of turmoil, of hopes and dreams ground beneath the inexorable tides of capital.

I can kind of smell dreams being ground down by capital.

Undoubtedly. And the scent is coming... from that railing over there!

You mean from Mañana?

Yes. Now's your chance to establish contact.

But be easy about it. Communists have been known to charge when startled.

You mean from the skinny guy in the red hat?

I still don't smell anything.

Nonsense. The reek of communism is unmistakable, and it's coming... from that railing over there!

(Close your eyes and take a deep breath.)

Can you smell it now?

You inhale. The cilia along your olfactory epithelium tingle with excitement as they sift through the swirling morass of industrial odours...

First come the smells of the agitated strikebreakers, layers of body oil and sweat, over-buttered meals pulled from bakelite lunch pails, the biting stench of lye soap. And then there's the slowly oxidizing metal gates, the scent of stale grease emanating from every crack...

"Still smelling for communists, detective?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'll be over here when you've finished." The lieutenant nudges something on the ground with his foot.

His impatience is feigned. He's curious to see how this personal errand shakes out.

What the lieutenant thinks is irrelevant. Your politico-olfactory cortex is lighting up like a holiday display. Look, it's pointing you right... to that railing over there!

He'll tolerate this personal errand, but his patience is wearing thin.

"What makes you say that?"

"No offence, detective, but you're not particularly subtle."

The lieutenant's right. It's sort of amazing how un-subtly you're sniffing the air around you, almost like you're trying to call attention to yourself.

"No."

"Uh huh."

The lieutenant issss not persuaded, sssssire.

"Everything in order, detective?" The lieutenant gives you a quizzical look.

"It's kind of a personal errand."

"A personal errand."

"Just taking in the fresh air, like a normal detective."

"There's a lot to take in, isn't there?" The lieutenant wrinkles his nose.

In a word, exactly what you would expect to find at any harbour in the industrialized world...

"I'm smelling for communists, Kim."

"You're smelling for..."

"You know what? I'll just leave you to it. Carry on, detective."

It is a mark of the lieutenant's respect for you that he does not press you on this decidedly extra-curricular errand.

The lieutenant lacks your highly developed politico-olfactory cortex. The reek of communism is undeniable. And it's coming... from that railing right there!

"I'm struggling to see the connection with our investigation, but I'm sure all will be revealed in time."

Nota bene: The lieutenant is not at all convinced that anything will be revealed.

"In the interest of our investigation, I suggest you focus on the case at hand. You can pursue your political projects after hours."

The lieutenant is not pleased with this turn of events, but it's unlikely that he'll move to intervene to stop them.

"I'm working on developing my political consciousness."

"You're developing your..."

No, actually. In fact, you can't smell much of anything. Perhaps your allergies are acting up?

There! Do you smell that?

Smell what?

Can you not detect that inimitable whiff of dissatisfaction and restlessness, that sense that the world is in need of dramatic, even violent re-ordering?

Does that mean there's a communist nearby?

(Close your eyes and take a deep breath.)

I don't smell anything.