The Bright Companion
by Edward Llewellyn


Chapter One
I rode out of the Shenandoah Mountains on the second of June 2061 and made the decision which changed my life. My gray was exhausted, my two pack horses were stumbling, and I myself was saddle-sore and weary. In the last three days I had been shot at six times, and all through my ride back to the valley I had been promising myself this would be my last venture out of it. The bandits in the foothills were growing meaner as they grew older.

I was still young, at twenty-five the youngest man south of Sherando. My trip into the mountains had been a mercy mission; a dangerous ride to replenish my stocks of Pharmaceuticals from a cocooned cache and bring back the drugs needed to mitigate the ills of an aging valley population. I had managed to reach the cache and fill my packs, but bandits had harassed me all the way back to the valley. I was lucky to have regained it alive.

I reached the overgrown thruway late in the afternoon and halted to rest my horses and face a problem. Serena Trask was two hours trek to the south and would enjoy giving me a good meal and part of her bed. My alternatives were to spend another night camped in the open or to sleep in the hotel at Brownville, five kilometers to the north, the town where I had been born and raised. It depressed me to watch its decay and I had avoided the northern part of the valley for the last eight months, but the prospect of an early meal and a bed I would not have to share with an energetic woman was the major factor in deciding my future. I turned my horses north instead of south, and that was the turning point in my life.

The permac surface of the thruway was still sterile and the carts and cattle of the farmers were keeping it clear of the honeysuckle and ivy which was beginning to tumble across most roads. There was little traffic in the late afternoon and I had ridden nearly a kilometer before I met another traveler. It was Jethero Bates in his buggy and he bellowed he was glad to see me coming this way again, and had I got anything to help his kidneys?

"Nothing better than the medicines your wife makes, Mister Bates."

"Martha's dead, Davy. Died last winter. I'm alone now." He sighed. "So you ain't got nothing to help me with the water?"

I shook my head.

He sighed again. "Well, call in on me when you come back past. You used to like fishin' in our creek—when you was a young 'un."

I promised to visit him on my return, and watched him jolt up the dirt track across his unkempt fields to his dilapidated farmhouse. Old, sick, no kids, his wife dead, his farm falling apart and his few neighbors little better off than himself. That was the future of the farmers in the valley and, as far as I knew, of most of the other people in the world.

I kicked my horses into a trot, anxious to avoid any more cheerless encounters. It was not easy, for I had traveled this road since childhood, and everyone I passed waved for me to stop and talk. I was a local celebrity, the lastborn in this part of the valley, the final pupil at Brownville High, the son of the physician who had spent his life fighting a losing battle through these farms and villages. Every oldster had some claim on me. I did not want to dissipate more of my father's legacy of good will, so I waved back but kept my horses moving. The image of Jethero Bates was enough melancholy for the moment. He typified a future that I must somehow escape.

I rode into Brownville at sunset. Its decay had accelerated; I could tell who had died during the months I had been away by the stores and houses which had become empty. Main Street was a dusty strip between derelict buildings. On the corner with Spruce was Brown's Hotel where I had planned to eat and spend the night.

It was abandoned, there was grass growing on its porch, it could offer me neither hot food nor company. I sat cursing, and then decided I preferred its shelter to that of my old home, which had been standing since I left it a year before. Brown's Hotel was a desolate lodging, but better than a lonely night among the relics of the five generations of Randolphs who had lived in my house before me.

My horses were snorting at the scent of the inn's deserted stables, and I had dismounted to lead them into the yard when Dan Clarke, the owner of the one surviving store in Brownville came out onto the steps.

"Lewis passed on six months ago, young Davy," he called. "If you're looking for a place to stay we'll be glad of your company. It's been too long since we saw you through here. You can put your horses in my barn. There's oats in the feedroom."

Dan was an amiable oldster and his wife an excellent cook, but she had the buzzing persistence of a bot fly. My gray, hearing the word "oats" tried to edge toward the stables and reminded me of my own hunger. "Thanks, Mister Clarke," I shouted back. "I'll be in when I've tended my horses."

By the time I had them groomed, watered, and fed it was dark. I remembered that Dan suffered from arthritis so I took a small packet of phenylbutazone tablets from my supplies and went up the steps into his cluttered store.

"You tradin', son?" he asked from behind his counter.

"Not much. Stock's almost finished." I put the packet down in front of him. "Here's some of the PB you used to like."

He studied it doubtfully. "You sure these are still good, Davy?"

"Sealed stock. I only broke bulk last week. They wouldn't have stored them away so carefully if they hadn't expected them to keep, would they now?"

"It's more'n thirty years since they was put up. Those tablets you sold when you came through last. They didn't help the pneumonias."

I had lost a number of customers during that outbreak, and was myself concerned about the residual potency of my antibiotics. But any drug needs the confidence of the consumer if it is to be effective; so I said, "They used them wrong. Anyway, PB's a different kind of medicine altogether. They'll help your joints. If they don't I'll exchange them next time I'm through."

"They allus used to work." He sighed. "Nothing works right no more." Then, as I began picking out groceries for the exchange, "Which way you headin' now, Davy boy?"

"Up to the Sherando Settlement." I hadn't known I was until I heard myself say it.

"Folks say they threw you out. Last time you went to trade in their market. Was you trying to grab one of their girls?"

The hope had been in my mind, but I had not had the chance. "You know my tastes, Dan. I like 'em mature." I had tried to adjust my appetites to my options. "Those Sherando scags may be fertile, but they're too dumb for me."

"There's some as don't find 'em so. I hear Clint Sprouse has got a posse together. Claims he's agoin' to force the Elders to share out some of their spare women."

"What?" I swung around from checking the shelves. "When they tried that before they got blasted."

"That was a while ago. Some of 'em is still wantin' kids. They're right heated. And Clint, he's only fifty. He's mad to have young ‘uns."

"Good luck to "em!" I turned back to the shelves, selected a couple of smoked hams, and laid them on the counter. "These, plus a meal and fodder. Is that a fair trade?"

"It's a good trade, Davy. But you allus was a good trader." Dan looked into my face. "Why'd them Elders throw you out of their market?"

"They learned my name." I answered curtly.

He whistled through his ragged teeth. "So they're feudin' with you 'cos of your dad. And him that helped them in their bad times. They never had no gratitude."

"Bigots never have. When do we eat?"

Ida Clarke still served a good meal and she still disapproved of me, but she let me satisfy the first of my hunger before she revived her perennial grievance, that my father had died too soon for her comfort.

"If he'd been spared for longer he might have learned you some doctorin', David. We'll never get no doctor again in the valley, and there's more and more as needs one."

There were no more medical schools, and my father had planned to teach me medicine himself after my solitary graduation from high school. It was to this end that he had encouraged me to read widely, although my choice had not always had his approval, for I had preferred psychology to physiology, history to physics. He had died before he had been able to add his professional knowledge and skills to the education in the humanities which I had given myself.

"He's sorely needed," I agreed. "I do my best by distributing what ethical medicines remain. My father taught me what medicine's good for what sickness. I wish he'd had time to teach me more."

Ida Clarke sniffed, making it clear that she regarded me as a rotten chip from a good block. When she hinted that the responsibility for my failing to emulate my father lay with my poor dead mother I escaped to the barn, claiming I wanted to sleep where I could guard my capital and my horses. In fact I preferred their company to a discussion of mutual customers who had died since my last visit to Brownville, with Ida Clarke supplying an accompaniment on the theme of expensive medicines that failed to cure the pneumonias.

I lay in the straw, listening to my horses' chompings and stampings, wondering about my future. My income was going to decline as my stocks were exhausted and my customers expired. My main source of capital was my knowledge of a cache of cocooned Pharmaceuticals hidden in the Appalachians, but over the last ten years I had sold off all the more valuable drugs which had been stored there before the Chaos, and the trip I had just made had convinced me that it must be my last. If my luck failed before the bandits' eyesight they would get me sooner or later. The cache was now a wasting asset and the risk-benefit ratio of my journeys to replenish trading stock was rising to unacceptable levels. I could see myself turning into another dirt farmer, living in a deteriorating community, tied to some aging widow. I had known for years that was my likely destiny if I stayed in the valley but I had avoided the thought, much as men avoid thinking about death until they are forced to. My return to Brownville with its reminders of my childhood and its present decay made me face my dreary future.

What were my options? Conditions outside the valley were reported as little better and probably worse. The cities were areas of savage chaos. The breakdown had come sooner and expanded faster than my father had expected, for the will to survive had often failed before the means were exhausted.

Communities containing fertile women were the only centers of purposeful life, and the only such communities, as far as I knew, were the scattered settlements. I had heard they existed all over the world but the single settlement I could reach was the one at Sherando, and there my name was reviled. I had no hope of being accepted into it, even if I could contemplate living under the strict authority of a bunch of elderly religious lechers.

My gray nuzzled up to me, and I rubbed his nose. I was an educated and energetic young man trapped between a society of aging illiterates and a community of selfish bigots. I must get out of the valley before I lost all will to escape. But to where?

The only place I could think of was the Enclave. My father had said that the Enclave was the one civilized state which might survive the Chaos intact. It was the root from which the settlements had sprung. Like the few other societies which contained fertile women in a barren world it had had to remain inconspicuous or be overrun when its desperate neighbors were still powerful. I knew little about it except that it still survived and lay somewhere on the far side of the Atlantic Ocean.

The Elders in Sherando could tell me more if they chose, for they were supposed to be following its creed, although they had degraded its teachings. It was for information about the Enclave that my subconscious was urging me to try again to trade with them. But if Clint Sprouse was raising the valley farmers in an attempt to force the Elders to surrender some of their surplus women I had better get there before he did. After Clint had attacked they would shoot outsiders on sight.

Lying in the straw, rubbing the soft nose of my gray, I told myself it was idiocy to waste any of my remaining capital in purchasing information about a doubtful goal which I could never reach. Escape to the Enclave was a fantasy that had tantalized me for years. As a lonely boy surrounded by aging adults, I had made up elaborate stories of adventurous quests across dangerous lands and stormy oceans, journeying to some juvenile Utopia. My dreams had helped to make my boyhood bearable.

After my father's death I had found myself surrounded by childless women eager to use me as a surrogate son or a real lover. I had enjoyed reality too much to have need of fantasy, for when I was sixteen women of thirty-five had seemed paragons of skilled sexuality. Now they were forty-five, my tastes had matured with my age, and my fantasies were returning in a new form. I fell asleep deciding that it was worth some effort and risk to find if any were feasible.

Chapter Two
The next morning Ida Clarke gave me breakfast and made me pay for it by listening to an account of her gastrointestinal symptoms. She disliked me, but I was the nearest thing to a physician she was ever likely to encounter and she used me while she had me. As I was anxious to beat Clint Sprouse to Sherando I tried to imitate my father's integrity by breaking into her recital and telling her what I thought was the truth about her bowels. It was not what she had wanted to hear and she let me go.

I rode out of Brownville considering my tactics should I reach Sherando in time to do business, but when I found myself passing my old home on the outskirts of town I could not resist turning into the orchard, already overgrown during the time I had been away. I sat for a moment among the familiar scents, then I dismounted and, leaving my horses to graze, I walked slowly into the house.

I had left it unlocked so that anyone who wished could enter without inflicting on our home the indignity of smashed doors and broken windows. I wandered from room to room. Very little had been taken. There was a glut of furniture and household equipment, the electrical appliances were useless without power, and my neighbors were not interested in pictures. Clint Sprouse and his vigilantes discouraged vandals, and I was glad that nothing had been wantonly smashed. I went up to my old room and stared at the rows of books, dusty and mildewed, but still neat on their shelves.

Psychology, philosophy, history, novels, verse. I had read voraciously from the time I had learned to read until my father's death. After that less often, and in the last year hardly at all. I looked at the titles. Intellectual adventures, of no value in the kind of life I was being forced to lead. I was a man of action despite myself. By instinct and inclination I was an intellectual. Probably the only intellectual under fifty still alive in Virginia. Perhaps the last left alive in America. After the Chaos had started intellectuals hadn't survived for long.

I ran my finger along the bindings. Even my practical interest had been impractical. I had a whole shelf on sailing, stories of crossing oceans in small boats, backgrounds for my fantasies. I, who had never seen the ocean, had read every available account of single-handed ocean crossings that I had been able to find. Slocum, Voss, Gerbault, the woman Davison, O'Brien, Chichester—I repeated these and a dozen other names in a kind of litany. There must have been a time in the twentieth century when the seas of the world were being crisscrossed by lonely sailors.

Some had been professional seamen; others the rankest amateurs. Here was a young Japanese who had never been aboard a sailboat until he left Yokohama alone to arrive safely in San Francisco many months later. Here was a sixteen-year-old boy who had sailed by himself around the world in a twenty-three foot sloop.

I could not leave these sagas to decay in an empty house. On impulse I loaded my favorites into my schoolboy haversack. Then I walked downstairs, shut the front door behind me, strapped the haversack to the mare's saddle, and rode out of the orchard.

The mists were clearing and soon it would be hot. I turned up the old thru way and urged my horses forward to take advantage of the cool of the morning. The haversack containing the books started to bounce against the mare's flanks, and I leaned over to adjust the straps. I had enough insight to realize that it was not chance alone which had led me back to my schoolboy library, but an attempt to restore some sense of purpose to my existence. On both sides of me was proof of the neglect that comes from its loss.

For as long as I could remember I had watched the quality of life deteriorating around me as an aging population surrendered to the troubles crowding upon it. A society without children is a society without hope, and I could see from the state of the farms that decay was accelerating. There was less traffic on the road than when I had last ridden this way, more young cedars were springing up in the pastures, more arable land was lying fallow. These lands were being farmed by men and women some of whom were losing their physical strength and all of whom had lost their belief in any future. The will to maintain their lands and buildings was weakening even when they still had the means. The lush wilderness engulfing the farms of the childless dead was a constant reminder of the futility of laboring for anything but immediate needs.

A reminder to me that I must get out of this graveyard. What were my chances of buying information at Sherando? The Elders were as avaricious as they were bigoted. Any deal would be expensive and only approved drugs from cocooned storage had any chance of tempting them into trade.

About noon I turned off the thruway and took a winding track toward Sherando, avoiding the main dirt road, and pondering on how best to approach the Elders in the settlement ahead. They had good reason to be suspicious of all chemicals, but I knew they were ready to accept antibiotics because I had traded with them profitably during their outbreak of gonorrhea. The disease had spread like wildfire among the lecherous old swine, and they had paid me a good price for my drugs. I could not expect to be so fortunate again, but I might be able to persuade them to prepare themselves for the future. They had a kind of doctor who was not so bigoted as the rest. He would be the Elder for me to contact. I must keep out of sight of the Patriarch until the deal was set up.

I came to the crest of a rise and saw Sherando on the hill ahead. It had been established sixty years before, during the Affluence, and was the antithesis of that florid civilization. The world had been swarming with gurus of every variety, and Sherando was one of a number of settlements founded by a fanatic they had called the Teacher. He had differed from the other prophets of generalized gloom by actually foreseeing the details of the disaster. He had also had practical ideas about what should be done, and the powers of persuasion and organization to push them through. Most important, he had banned Impermease so that female infants born in his settlements had not been subtly sterilized in their mothers' wombs.

Sherando had been rich from its beginning, but most of the other settlements had been poor, weak, and isolated, sharing only a common creed and radio network. During the Affluence they had been ridiculed or ignored. Twenty years later and twenty years too late the rest of the world began to discover what Impermease had been doing to their unborn daughters. Soon afterward they realized that the young women in the settlements were still fertile. Some of the settlements had been strong enough to withstand the hostility and envy of their neighbors; some had been sufficiently remote to be unnoticed. Then the Chaos had swept civilization leaving primitive tribes and the surviving settlements as oases in a desert of barren humanity.

The Sherando Settlement had never been weak. Its founders had sited it on a strategic hill, and decades ago when bulldozers and fuel had still been available, a great ditch had been dug and earthworks thrown up. The whole place had a depressing resemblance to some artist's conception of a bronze-age fort.

I studied it through my binoculars and cursed. The main gates were closed and the bridge across the ditch was blocked by a barricade of carts. Some of the ripening wheatfields around were black from burning, and cattle had been driven through many hectares of the standing corn. Sherando had been under recent attack. Clint and his cohorts had already started to make trouble.

This was the end of my dream, at least for the present. The burning of their crops would infuriate the Elders and convert their distrust of outsiders into frank hatred. And soon they would counterattack.

I finished cursing and regained my composure. I am a rational man with the common sense to realize when a speculation deteriorates into a gamble. All I had lost so far was a day of trading and a night with Serena. If I approached the settlement now I was liable to lose my capital and perhaps my life.

A group of horsemen trotted out of the wood at the foot of the rise. One of them waved and I recognized an old patient of my father's. I walked back and he came galloping up the slope followed by the others.

"You're too late, Davy boy. All the girls are bespoken."

"What's going on?" I asked as they came crowding around. Most of them were local farmers whom I had known all my life; middle-aged bearded men, hard-working and childless.

"We're making a deal with the old sods in there."

"A deal? Art—how the hell? They've got machine guns and rocket-launchers behind those earthworks!"

"We know that, Davy boy. But their fancy weapons won't stop us burning their crops. They'll lose their harvest."

"And you'll lose yours!" I was so exasperated with these fools that I was more outspoken than is my custom. "And your houses. They'll burn you out like they did last time."

"Burn us out?" Art growled. "What the hell if they do? The way things are going for me and the missus we'd as soon be burned out now as later."

"Cheer up, Art! They've knuckled under. Like Clint said they would."

"Soon as they saw we was real desperate."

"They got more gals in there than they know what to do with."

"A lot of the women want out."

"Those Elders of theirs wouldn't let 'em go, not at first. So we've been persuading the old bastards. This time they know it's for real. Every field in the valley would be afire."

"Including theirs!"

I began to see the logic. They were convincing the Elders that they were indeed desperate, that they had nothing to lose, that they had reached the stage when they would hazard their farms and their lives to get children. They were demonstrating the terrible tenacity of peasants for group survival. Sherando could undoubtedly repulse any attack these farmers could launch, but at the cost of wasted crops for kilometers around. The price for retaining a handful of surplus females was proving too high for the Elders.

"The old sods have no stomach for it. What are fifty gals to them? Reckon they've got hundreds of spares. Every time they hang a man they grab his woman."

"It's my belief they killed off a lot of boys to keep more girls for themselves," somebody growled.

I had heard such rumors, but I was more interested in the present. "So they've agreed to a deal?"

"Yeah. Sorry you're not in on it, Davy boy. Stick around fifteen years. Mebbe I'll have a daughter for you!"

Not one I'd want if she looked like him. And I was sick of being "Davy Boy." I was taller than any of the men around me and had as much muscle though less fat. But I didn't have a beard. I was the last civilized man in a bunch of protobarbarians. I said, "I'm after a deal with the Elders too. But not for a girl. I want to buy information."

"Clint's the boss. He's going to parley as soon as we've brought the cattle up. Perhaps—"

Some of the group began to object. I cut in quickly, "Those girls you're getting. They'll be needing medicines soon. You can be sure of that."

"Come and talk to Clint. See what he says."

We walked our horses down to the wood where the rest of the gang were gathering. Art leaned over and muttered, "Don't try to horn in on the gals, Sonny. You get plenty of screwing as it is. It's us as needs the kids. It's us that has fought to get 'em."

I understood their hunger although I did not share it. These men were farmers in their forties and fifties who could see all around them the fate of the generation ahead of theirs, the fate of farmers with no children and too few neighbors to aid them as they grew old and feeble. They had the peasant sense of reality. Without children or welfare the aged descend into want and misery. These farmers were making a last bid to avoid that fate, and it seemed as though their gamble might pay off. They had hit the settlement hard, where it hurt the Elders the most, in its material possessions.

Clint Sprouse was talking to two of his lieutenants. A heavy red-faced man; stubborn, decent, and brave, he had been both a patient and a friend of my father's. He greeted me warmly enough.

"This here is all fair and above board, Davy," he said as we shook hands. "We're not bandits. For years we've been keeping some kind of order in this valley, and those sods have profited. Now we want to get our share. Otherwise—" he shrugged, "—they'll take over everything when we're too old to stop 'em. I think we've convinced 'em what they're up against."

"They're freeing some girls?"

"Fifty. Girls who want to leave. And we're giving a hundred head of cattle for the damage we've done their crops. It's a fair exchange. Your pa would have agreed."

He might have, but I did not argue. "Clint—I want to ask the Elders some questions. Important questions—for me. Let me talk to 'em when you've finished your parley. It's the only chance I'll have."

"What questions do you want to ask 'em, son?"

"Where the Enclave is."

"Oh!" Clint looked baffled. He was beholden to me for my father's sake, but he did not want to risk his own deal.

"I've just picked up some suppositories with cortisone." I had noticed that Clint had been shifting uncomfortably in his saddle, and I knew he suffered from chronic piles. "There's not many of those left any place."

He glanced at me. "Come and see what the boys say."

He put my request to his gang. Most of them had never heard of the Enclave, and once they were persuaded that I was not going to try to abduct one of the women, they agreed I could ride forward with Clint and Art. Provided I kept my mouth shut until their own deal was complete. "Let him try for his pa's sake!" I heard somebody say. I was grateful for their permission, but I wished that people would not always invoke my father's memory when they did me a kindness.

I tethered my pack horses in the wood and joined Clint and Art in the bottom below the settlement. Presently a flag was waved over the main gate and we walked our horses halfway up the hill and stood waiting. I began to sweat as I remembered the machine guns behind those earth works. We were out in the open with the rest of the gang under cover in the wood more than five hundred meters to our rear.

The postern opened and three heavily bearded men rode out, wearing the black coats and shovel hats which the Elders had adopted as a kind of uniform. They guided their horses among the wagons piled across the causeway and trotted down the hill toward us.

"Their boss man himself is coming," Clint muttered. "You'll have small luck, son. He hated your dad."

I recognized the Patriarch, riding in the lead, astride a magnificent roan stallion. He looked much as when I had seen him last, except his full beard was now white. But he still sat bolt upright in the saddle, imitating, I suppose, his image of how a leader should sit a horse. He stared at us with angry eyes but he did not recognize me.

"The Council have agreed" His voice was harsh. "You have the cattle?"

"Back beyond the wood." Clint waved his hand. "You have the girls?"

"They are gathering now. You understand—they are women who choose to go. To leave the protection of the Light. If they had not chosen the Council would have let every field be fired, every cow gutted, before they would have betrayed any of our people."

"When your Council gets over its shock it may see this is for the common good."

"Once we offered your fathers our friendship. First they scorned us, then they robbed us. Now you burn our crops."

"All that is in the past. Our fathers were no worse than the others. Nobody knew what was ahead."

"The Children of Light knew," triumphed the Patriarch. "Knowledge came from the Light—"

"Shit!" burst out Art. "You hung onto your harem until the cost's too high!"

The Patriarch turned his craggy face, raising his hand as though to thunder an anathema. The old fool was not just acting a part. He had become his role. But he only said, "I tell you the women are coming freely. Forty-five have already chosen husbands from among you."

"And the other five?"

"The Council selected them from among women who wished to leave. Or who had stated openly in the past that they wanted to desert the settlement. They go from the Light to the Darkness by their own choice." He wiped his lips and turned his horse. "Let me see the cattle."

He rode with Clint toward the field beyond the wood, leaving the four of us sitting our horses in a knot of mutual dislike and suspicion. Presently they reappeared, Clint waving his hat to signal that the agreement was concluded. The Patriarch did not glance toward us, but walked his stallion rapidly up the track leading to the postern. The two Elders trotted over to join him.

I spurred across the hill to intercept them, shouting, "Sir! Sir!"

He swung around to face me. I gasped, "Sir—I want to trade. Not for girls, sir. For knowledge!"

"What knowledge, boy?"

"Just some facts, sir. Won't cost you anything. I'll give you antibiotics, sir. Just for you to tell me—where is the Enclave? How can I get there?"

"The Enclave!" He spoke slowly. "We have no more truck with the Enclave. They have let the Light fade. We have kept it pure!"

"Sir—please—"

Then he recognized me. "You are David! The renegade son of an apostate mother!" His cheeks flushed. "Smooth-chinned child of Evil! Face of a cherub! Heart of a devil!"

"The Enclave, sir?" I pleaded. "Where is it?"

He ignored my question but continued to curse me. I sat silent, hoping he would see the profit he could make when his fury abated. One of the Elders touched his sleeve, but the old man ranted on.

He began to curse my father. It was not so much his wild words but his waving beard which triggered me to explode out of character and caution. He became the epitome of all the arrogant, overbearing, bearded old men who had been hounding me for so long.

I rose in my stirrups and cursed him back. I named him as an ingrate, a barbarian, a lecher, a murderer—and a trader in women!

That stung him into action, as I had intended. His hand went fumbling for his pistol, allowing me to reach for mine. The two Elders drove their horses between us. One caught the Patriarch's arm, and the other shouted at me. "Get away, boy—get away! We have trouble enough already!"

I spat at the mouthing old bigot, realized that the Elders would have shot me down had I actually drawn, and galloped back to Clint and Art. My impetuous hostility could have blown their deal, but when a wave from the Elders showed them the trade was still on they burst out laughing.

"Never thought you had so much spunk, young Davy!" said Clint, clapping me on the shoulder. "You were starting to draw on him—I declare!" He saw my face and stopped laughing. "Cheer up, lad! Maybe one of the girls they're sending out can tell you about that Enclave place."

"No way! Those dumb scags! Mostly can't even read!" Sherando was notorious for both pampering and mistreating its womenfolk. The docile were spoiled, the rebellious beaten. All were kept uneducated. And they would be sending out their least wanted!

"Here come the gals!" Art galloped to join the rest of Clint's gang who were emerging from the woods to greet their brides. Clint and I were left, sitting our horses, opposite the postern.

The girls came through the narrow gate, one by one, with Clint counting them off. They came eagerly enough, picking a path among the carts on the causeway, running down the hill, Clint waving them on toward the cheering group at the edge of the wood. "Empty-handed!" he growled. "The tight-fisted old swine. Haven't let them bring nothing except the clothes they're in."

Clint Sprouse was no businessman, and trade is not an occupation for amateurs. He would have done better to have employed me to check his agreement with the Elders before he concluded it. Had I arrived sooner I might have been able to act as his agent. I could have raised the ante to fifty-one women. My chagrin grew as I watched them running past us toward their new husbands, Clint's girl coming over to kiss his hand before following the rest.

They were a homely bunch, of various color combinations and shades, but what man now cared about the color of a fertile woman's skin? As for the woman, who cared what she cared? These girls were luckier than most; they'd had some say in whom they were getting as mates.

Those who came last were more hesitant. They huddled together by the postern, and when the fiftieth was pushed out they grouped around her and started slowly down the hill. Five reluctant brides.

"Hell!" swore Clint. "They've made up the score with women they want to be rid of. Four cows and one vixen!"

Four of the girls coming toward us were even plainer and plumper than most Sherando women. But the fifth was no scag. "That blonde—the tall one—who's she?"

"Her? A hell-cat! But bright. She worked their radio. And they're throwing her out! The old fools! Try her, Davy. She may know about that Enclave place."

The five came slowly toward us, clustering about the tall blonde. She met our eyes as though it was she who was appraising us instead of vice versa. The other four stumbled along in a confusion of tears, fright, and excitement; she walked straight and steady. She had belted in the loose cotton dress that all Sherando women wore and her slim waist and hips were in contrast to the thick-waisted broad-bottomed girls around her. They stopped in front of us.

"Any of you bespoken?" asked Clint.

They shook their heads. The blonde said, "We are the ones they have betrayed!"

"Your Patriarch said the Council chose you from among the girls who wanted to leave."

"He is the father of lies. As you already know." She faced Clint, speaking as if to an equal, although he was an armed and mounted man. "What are you going to do with us?"

"You must take husbands. There are five men back there who've been risking their lives for a wife. They'll have to draw for you—or there'll be more killing."

The girls faces showed that they were already resigned to some such arrangement. They started to walk toward the wood. I reminded Clint of our agreement. "Clint—"

He called, "Davy here. He's not one of us. But be wants to ask you some questions."

They turned to look up at me. "Where is the Enclave?" I asked.

The four shook their heads in confusion, but the blonde studied me. She had gray eyes. "Why?"

"I mean to go there."

"Go there? It is across the Atlantic."

"Where is it?" I leaned forward in my saddle. "I'll give you a dowry if you'll tell me."

"You are the old doctor's son. You used to trade in the market. Until last year when they found your real name and drove you away."

I nodded.

"You watched them whip me!"

So she was that girl. She had seemed familiar. I had not seen her whipped. I had watched the Patriarch bambooing her backside. Years ago. She had been only a kid in shorts then.

"Come on!" urged Clint impatiently. "If you know anything, tell him." There were shouts rising from the unmatched men on the edge of the wood.

The girls resumed their walk down the hill, quickening their pace as they adjusted to the inevitable. I dismounted and, leading my horse, pushed over to join the blonde. I am taller than most men but she was only a head shorter than me. "The Enclave? Where is it? You must know. You're a radio operator."

"If I tell you where the Enclave is, will you swear to do something for me?"

"Anything I can. But I can't stop them marrying you off."

"That I don't expect. Just swear that if you do reach the Enclave you'll tell them what you've seen today? That you watched the Elders of Sherando trading fertile women for cattle?"

That was not quite what I had seen, but I said, "I swear I'll tell them if I get there. Where is it?"

"Do you know where Syria was?"

"Of course—at the eastern end of the Mediterranean."

"The Enclave is inland a way. But there's a port—near Tyre. Ever heard of it?"

"Yes." I hid my irritation. I was certainly better educated than any girl; than anyone from Sherando for that matter.

"Even if you reach the coast, how are you going to cross, the ocean?"

"I know how to sail a boat. I'll find one. It has been done often."

"So you're a sailor as well as a peddler!" In her own humiliation she needed a target to taunt.

"Is the Enclave still civilized?"

"Civilized? What do you mean? Their leaders don't keep harems or sell women. They haven't revived slavery and the lash. They are organized. They are starting to manufacture things—not live off the fat from the past. At least they were six months ago. The last time I worked the station there."

"You haven't worked them for six months?"

"Not since the Patriarch smashed the radio. The Enclave was sending them signals they didn't want. I handled too many messages condemning their actions. That is why I am here now!" She shrugged. "Perhaps it is best. Sooner or later—they would have killed me."

"Is there anything—?"

"Do not try to cross through the Rockfish Gap." We were approaching the group at the edge of the wood and she suddenly decided to help me. "There are bandits hanging around the eastern end."

I knew that already, but I was grateful to her for telling me.

"There is a trail about four kilometers to the south," she continued quickly. "It starts in the woods above a farm with a round brick tower. Take that. It's your best chance. The first fifteen kilometers after the mountains are dangerous too. And the coastal cities—" She shrugged.

I thanked her, and when we joined the waiting farmers I went to my pack animals to get her the gift I had promised. I settled on a bottle of sulfa tablets. I was fairly sure they were still potent, and sooner or later she would get a bladder infection.

By the time I got back the five unmatched members of Clint's gang were starting to draw for brides. Each of the girls held a card and Clint was stirring the rest of the deck in his hat. The gray-eyed girl stood apparently indifferent; the other four were giggling with excitement.

Cracker Ames, a hairy hulk of a man, let out a whoop. "One-eyed jack! I've got the bright one!" He came striding over, roaring with delight. "I'm your husband, honey."

She looked up at him, a smile like the sunrise on her face. "Thank God—I've been lucky!"

"They call me Cracker." The oaf had swallowed her lie. "What's your name? Ann! Howdo Ann!" He patted her bottom, chuckled, reached down the front of her bodice and pulled out a switchblade. He held it up. "Look what I've found!"

"Watch her, Cracker!" came the shout of another bridegroom. "She's the wildcat!"

"A girl needs insurance." She had gripped his arm, was smiling up into his face. "I didn't know who I'd get. Now I've got you, Cracker!"

I understand the duplicity of women but I had never imagined such vanity in a man. Cracker slid his arm around her waist in delighted acceptance of the absurdity that she welcomed him as her husband. He walked her down toward the hollow where the rest were gathering for a kind of group marriage. These farmers were still clinging to remnants of legality.

She bad not even glanced at me. I put the sulfa back in my saddlebags, but I could not tear myself away from the scene. The middle-aged women waiting with their husbands in the hollow were greeting the girls coming to be second wives. A few years ago polygamy would have horrified them. Now they welcomed it. Like their menfolk they realized the rigors to come if there were no children to help an aging couple with the hard work of a subsistence farm.

The disaster of female sterility was destroying three millennia of Western culture. This equivalent of the rape of the Sabine women was necessary for the valley farmers, but it was a sign of returning barbarism. Among barbarians the male is sometimes free; the female never. The liberty of women had been the last layer formed by a maturing civilization and the first shed when it started to die.

The mass marriage began with a hymn. Cracker's bellow rose above the other voices as I headed my horses away from Sherando. He would soon be doubting his luck in drawing the one-eyed jack. That Ann was both cunning and arrogant. She was too bright to accept Cracker and his prune-faced wife. It would be profitable to look her up after they had been married a month. She could tell me a lot more about the Enclave than she had. As a radio operator she probably knew more about what was going on in the rest of the world than anyone in the valley.

I began to reconsider my situation. I had gone to Sherando to bargain for information. I had got it free, and my trading prospects had been improved by Clint's success. In my northern territory there were now fifty young women married to older farmers, girls much closer to my age than to the ages of their husbands. It was true that I was running out of brand-name Pharmaceuticals, but I could make another attempt to brew my own medicines.

Also the market for small-arms ammunition, my other line, was picking up. For the last thirty years it had been depressed by the easy availability of the vast pre-Chaos stocks, but consumption had continued high and local shortages were now developing. It would soon be profitable for me to start distributing from a cache to which I had monopoly access.

At that point I realized I had been riding north and that the farm with the round brick tower was on my right. It would be prudent to camp in the empty farmyard and rethink my plans in the morning. Clint's success had improved the economic situation. In less than a year kids would start to arrive. There would be lots of interesting work for a physician and I was the nearest thing to one. My distaste for medicine was a distaste for geriatrics. With fifty young women in my practice the outlook was altered. All my father's books and instruments were in his old office. The next day I would ride back to Brownville and consider my new options.

It was dusk by the time I had groomed, fed, and watered my horses and could start to cook my own supper. As I collected kindling I remembered the gray eyes of that girl—Ann. By now Cracker would be consummating his marriage—and she would be pretending to enjoy it.

Cracker's bright companion—the phrase teased my imagination. A dark companion, if I remembered my astronomy, was the invisible partner in a binary star system. That girl would be neither invisible nor inaudible. She would bring Cracker plenty of grief before she was through.

Chapter Three
I was bending over the fire, stirring my stew, when she stepped out of the shadows. Her pistol was pointed at my chest.

"Up!" she said, and the muzzle twitched.

I rose slowly, reaching above my head.

She advanced until she was facing me across the fire. Sweat streaked her face, her hair was plastered against her cheeks. Torn blouse. Arms scratched. Edge of her skirt filthy with mud. Sandals trailing ditchweed. She had moved fast and across country. She was still panting.

She let her breathing slow, then said, "You see? You can't travel safely alone. Not even when you're awake!"

"But this is the valley!" She must have gone crazy. "What do you want?"

"Your horses and gear. You too, maybe!"

"Me? For God's sake—"

"To ride with me. Just to ride. Like you—I'm making for the coast. It's too dangerous, traveling alone." She gestured with her pistol. "But I'll risk it if I must!"

What had she done? I glanced back down the trail. "Where's your husband?"

"Cracker? Cracker'll not follow. He has my knife in him."

"Your knife? But—but—I saw him take it!"

"He took the knife I hid to be found. He didn't search for the other."

My real danger hit me. She had knifed Cracker and bolted. She had come to me. They had seen us talking together. With my reputation they would not wait to hear me out. They would condemn me on the spot.

She read my expression. "Cracker took me off into the woods. So his pals won't find him tonight. Anyway, they're too stoned to track. We have a start."

"We?"

"Yes, you and me!" She had made her decision. "We're going to travel together. For mutual support. And we'd better move."

"Now listen—"

"If a posse catches us they may whip me. But they'll sure hang you! Especially after they've heard my version."

Her logic was as patent as her duplicity. I lowered my hands. "It's almost dark."

"Safest time to cross the Blue Ridge." She laid her automatic on the ground and turned to look at my piled gear. "Got a pair of pants in that lot? I can't ride in this."

She had let go her gun and turned her back. Should I jump her, tie her across my horse, and return her to Clint? She would probably get away with a thrashing. She might be a murderess but she was fertile.

Then I saw that she was testing me. She still had a weapon. Probably another knife. Could I grab it before I got the blade in my belly? And what reception could I expect from Cracker's friends, however I brought her back?

She repeated her demand for pants. The muscles of her shoulders were relaxing. I was suddenly outraged by the contempt their easing implied. I sprang across the fire and was on her while her hand was still reaching beneath her skirt. I shoved her aside and walked to my packs. She stood watching me, and I saw the glint of her half-drawn steel.

I dragged out a pair of my jeans and tossed them to her. "Here! They'll be too long in the leg and too tight in the ass. But they're all I've got."

"A shirt, and boots too!" she demanded, pulling her torn dress over her head.

The firelight flickered on small firm breasts and lean flanks. I had been conditioned to mature women and her figure was too slim for my taste. But there was a flare to her hips, her waist was small, her belly flat and hard—

"A shirt—a shirt!" she called, tugging on my jeans.

I gave her a shirt, a sweater, and my spare boots. Like most horsemen I am proud of my small feet and hers were large for a girl. She ignored my inspection. After she had dressed she walked over to my packs and took a 9mm revolver and gun belt from my trading stock. When I objected she nodded to the automatic she had left on the ground. "Add that to your merchandise. I don't trust automatics after they've been through the hands of yokels like Cracker."

I unloaded the automatic and stored it away. This Ann knew firearms. Most customers suffer from the delusion that five wild shots are better than one aimed round. When I returned she was squatting by the fire, starting on my stew.

She nodded at me. "Eat! God knows when we'll get hot food again."

I crouched beside her, picking at the stew but mostly glancing back down the trail.

"And relax." She scraped her plate and stood up. "We'd hear them coming all the way from Sherando. Finish your food. I'll saddle up."

My mare, tethered at the barn rail, turned her head to nuzzle a welcome. The girl ran her hands over the mare's legs, felt her flanks, and rubbed her nose. "Lady, you'll do!" She spoke to me over her shoulder. "At least you look after your horses."

"They're my transportation."

"From bed to bed?" She began to tack the mare, and presently she hefted my haversack. "What the hell have you got in here? Books! These we can dump."

"No—they're books on sailing."

"But you said you knew how!"

"I do. My father taught me to sail. On the lake. When I was a kid." I was angered by her expression. "Have you ever handled a sailboat?"

"Never even seen one!" She stood eyeing me, my haversack in her hand. "You're planning to try the Atlantic when all you've ever sailed is some punt in a pond?"

"She wasn't a punt! My father had a sloop. Not large enough for the ocean. But the idea's the same. It's been done. By men who knew less than me. They wrote some of those books!"

"Brother—you've got more guts than show on the surface! Your reputation doesn't—"

"What the hell do you know about my reputation?"

"During my marriage booze-up I asked about you. Made Cracker mad! Reckon his pals will know where to look when they find him." She cut off my curses. "OK— we'll take your instruction manuals. Lady, you'll have to carry a few kilos of seamanship." She strapped my haversack to the mare's saddle and began to adjust the stirrups, the girths, and the reins.

The unscrupulous bitch had closed the valley to me! I continued to curse her and she continued to ignore me. I was trapped. I had been cheated out of my options. Still cursing I saddled the gray and the chestnut. There was no place in the valley where I'd be safe from Cracker's friends. I watched her examine the rifles and select the carbine.

"I've been over the mountains," she said as she loaded the magazine and slid the carbine into the boot behind the mare's saddle. She stuffed her torn dress into my haversack while I dowsed the fire and checked the camp site. As she swung up onto the mare she added, "Keep closed up. I know the trail. It'll be dark under the trees."

It was. I followed her silhouette and the sounds of the mare picking her way delicately up the winding path into the mountains. Even in the darkness I could see that this girl sat a horse well, and from the way the mare responded I knew she could ride. The trail became steeper, and as we climbed higher the chances of Cracker's friends following us diminished. But it also became harder for me to return in the darkness, and if I waited for daylight I would be riding into their arms. I struggled with my dilemma as we twisted and turned up the flanks of the Blue Ridge.

The moon rose as we reached the peak of the ridge and came out onto the remains of Skyline Drive. We stopped to rest the horses and I looked back on the valley behind us. It was a spangle of lights from familiar farms and villages. A bright cluster marked the Sherando Settlement where they still had electric power from their wood-gas generators. That was the valley where I had been born, where I had grown up, along which I had traded for ten yean. It was familiar and secure.

To the east, six hundred meters below, there spread a dark countryside I knew only by reputation. There were a few scattered lights, but the people down there would be strangers, many of them hostile. To go among them was unprofitable madness.

"Let's move!" Ann muttered.

I temporized. "You've been down there?"

"Five times. With foraging parties. The last was six months ago."

"They took a woman foraging?"

"They had to!" She laughed. "If they wanted to keep the radio working they had to go after replacement parts. Sparks died two years ago. I was the only one who knew what to look for. Even after they'd smashed the radio they still needed bits for the generators. And the dolts running the power station would be useless on a raid. The Elders—they like their electricity. They forgot their dogma when they needed my skills. We had some hard riding— and some hard fighting. On the last trip I fought too well. I claimed my rights for risking my life. That's when they decided to dump me."

Ann had produced a second reason for being thrown out of Sherando. I suspected that I had not yet heard the most cogent. But I only asked, "Down there—is it safe?"

"Safe?" Her teeth glinted in the moonlight. "Nowhere's safe any more. Don't kid yourself—the valley won't be safe for long. There's a bloodbath brewing. I've done you a favor, making it too hot to hold you. But down there, if we stick together, we'll do better than most. Come on!"

She urged the mare forward toward the trail dipping under the trees. I could have wheeled my horses and plunged back toward the valley, but her patronizing arrogance infuriated me into following her down the steep path to the east. After a few meters I had lost my chance to turn, and I consoled myself with the thought that to quit now would be to lose my mare and a large part of my capital.

The woods were full of sounds, but all were night noises I knew well. After a time we had to dismount and advance step by step, leading our horses. When the trail grew more rugged I suggested we wait for dawn, but she goaded me on. "There are goons skulking all through here, living off what's left of the farmers."

She seemed to know the way, so I continued to follow. As the first light began to filter through the branches her vigilance increased, and I alerted in sympathy. Above the treetops dawn was breaking. I saw her hand go down to undo the butt strap of her revolvers, and I did the same. We remounted and pushed on as fast as we dared.

It was almost daylight when we rounded a sharp bend and were among them; six bearded goons, scrambling from their crude bivouac, awakened by the sounds of our coming. The girl kicked the mare into a gallop and I thundered down the broken trail after her, trying to control my horses. She drew ahead, then checked and swung the mare sideways into the scrub, out of my path, gesturing me on. She was drawing the carbine from the boot as she turned, and she screamed, "Keep going! Let me cover!"

I had my hands full with the two horses, but when I heard her carbine crack and an answering fusillade whistled past from somewhere behind, I dragged them to a halt and reached for my own rifle. I looked back and saw the girl, crouching low, frantically waving me on, so I booted the gray back into a gallop, fighting to keep my seat over the broken ground and hold the chestnut from bolting. Another burst of fire buzzed through the leaves, but the mare's hooves were still pounding behind me, and as the trail became broader and flatter I began to use my spurs.

It expanded into a sunken road, and we were out from under the trees and into the early morning light. The mare came charging past, the girl riding like a maniac, flinging up grass and dirt to disappear around a bend ahead. Foam was flying from the gray's mouth and the chestnut was staggering. When I rounded the bend I saw her dismounted, up the bank, her carbine aiming back at the road.

"Out of sight!" she yelled. "This is an ambush. If those cabron are following."

I slid from my gray, pulled out my rifle, and scrambled up the opposite bank. My own instinct was to keep going rather than seek revenge, but as my heart slowed I saw the wisdom of her tactics. If the goons came after us we would catch them on ground of our own choosing.

They didn't. After five minutes, when the only sound from the woods was the singing of the morning birds, Ann slid down the bank and walked over to the mare who lifted her head to nuzzle. "Lady—well done—you're the best!"

The gray and the chestnut had hardly moved, they were so weary, and I led them to where Ann was remounting. She looked down at me. "Sonny, you did okay too. But don't stop for me when I'm riding cover. I won't when it's my turn with the pack horse. Though I'll come back to spring you if you don't make it."

I agreed that was our best strategy and undertook to return if she was in trouble and still alive. Then we followed the sunken road into the miracle of a June morning in Virginia. The untended fields and orchards were afire with flowers, the dew was glistening on the grass, and the birds were singing madly. I wondered if there were any dead on the trail behind us. From Ann's deliberate rate of fire I judged her shots had been aimed.

She pushed on relentlessly, exhaustion growing on her face. I myself was weary but it was the state of the horses which, around noon, made me insist on a halt. "If we don't rest—they'll drop! That farm. There's cover and maybe food."

The house was wrecked and deserted. But people had recently lived there and their bodies were still sprawled in the ravaged kitchen. They had not died easily.

I turned, nauseated, and tried to stop Ann from entering. But she pushed past me, and her gray eyes went as hard as agate when she saw the remains of a ghastly happening.

"Bandits?" I asked.

"Unlikely. Bandits don't kill for sport. Or with this cruelty. Probably goons—city goons."

Already I was accepting the snippets of knowledge she threw out. She was swaying with weariness but followed me when I went to tend the horses. "You turn in," I said. "I doubt if you've slept for a week."

She tried to argue but her exhaustion was complete. "That hayloft then. Wake me in two hours." She climbed the ladder to the loft over the barn, her carbine slung from her shoulder.

I searched the buildings and the yard, but the looters had left little. I caught two hens still hanging around their old run and picked some young corn from the garden. The horses were hidden in the barn and I had a good view of the road in both directions, but as soon as I sat down I started to nod. In order to stay awake I dug two graves in the edge of the cornfield where the earth was soft and buried the mutilated remains from the kitchen. After I had washed at the well I felt clean and fresh, so I built a small smokeless fire on one corner of the yard and began to roast the chickens and the corn.

By the time the food was ready Ann had slept for three hours and I shouted to her from the bottom of the ladder. When I got no answer I climbed cautiously up into the loft; she seemed the kind of person liable to shoot if alarmed. But she was still asleep, lying half-hidden in the hay, her gun-belt loosened, her carbine beside her, her head thrown back, snoring softly.

Her vulnerability roused my protective instincts. It aroused other instincts also, for now that sleep had removed expression from her face she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. It was true I had not seen many girls in the flesh, but I had been a sedulous student of female beauty as revealed in old magazines, and Ann could match any of those pictures. Her blonde hair was tumbled about her flushed cheeks, her red lips were parted from even white teeth, her rather small breasts rose and fell gently and regularly under my shirt, the lines of her body were slim and taut under my jeans, her curves rippled as she shifted in her sleep.

I knelt, slid the carbine from her side, picked it up, and stood over her, alert for the possibility of some trap. When I was sure her exhaustion was genuine I poked her in the ribs with the toe of my boot.

She reached for her revolver as she came awake. Then she saw the carbine in my hands and her gray eyes went wide. She turned her open palms toward me and slowly sat up.

I gave her a few moments to appreciate the situation. Then I laid the carbine beside her again. "There's roast chicken and corn ready. Come and eat." I turned my back and went down the ladder.

She followed me into the yard, but before she ate she drew a bucket of water from the well and plunged her head into it, much as a man might have done. Then she combed her wet hair back with her fingers and joined me by the fire. She still looked beautiful.

After she had satisfied her initial hunger she said, "I take it the tableau in the loft means we're partners?"

"Partners. Equal partners. That's what I was signaling. Cut out the Sonny!"

"I'll try. But I've never seen a grown man without a beard." She studied me. "You don't look the kind to let a chance get by you. You know you had me up there?"

"Sure!" I bit on an ear of corn. "But what makes you think I want you? Anyway, rape's not my thing."

"Bully for you, Mack." She ate some more chicken. "You puzzle me. Your reputation, commercial and social, doesn't suggest you're the type to gamble at long odds. Are you serious about trying to get to the Enclave?"

I nodded. I was now. She'd made the valley verboten, and I couldn't think of any place to go except the Enclave.

"Why?" Her gray eyes were on me.

"I want to regain civilization. I want to live in a society with some culture. A place where—"

"Skip the crap, David! Cultural hunger hasn't enough drive to lift a fart over those mountains. Certainly not a smart operator like you. Yet you took straight off when I told you which way to head. What made you tackle such a chancy proposition?"

I hesitated. I found that I did not have a reason which even convinced myself. I gave her one she would understand. "Girls!"

"That I'll buy!" She laughed. "Though I gathered from Cracker's friends you preferred 'em long in the tooth. Jeez! What men will do for a bit of tail! Old fools like Cracker risking their necks to grab a bunch of simpering squabs!"

"Your fellow brides?" I selected another piece of chicken. "Ann—you flatter yourself. Those guys weren't after tail. There's still plenty—and of better quality—outside Sherando. Sherando women are notorious for hangups. Those farmers were after kids. The means were your ends!" She did not even smile, so I continued. "And you? Why your urge to go to the Enclave? Apart from having to move fast once you'd knifed your husband!"

She stared into the fire and said nothing.

I pressed her. "Come on—we're partners now. I told you my reason."

"It isn't the Enclave. I want to reach the Med because—" She looked up at me. "Because I want to be an engineer. Like my father."

Her answer was so incongruous that I laughed.

Ann flinched as though I had hit her, flung a chicken bone across the yard, and stalked away to tack the mare.

We saddled and loaded the horses in silence and led them out onto the road.

As I mounted she snapped, "We're going to infuriate each other. That's obvious. But we're stuck with each other. Do you mean it—about being partners?"

"You've fixed it so I've got no choice."

She bit her lip, pushed a strand of her golden hair back from her eyes, and looked up at me. Then she smiled, and again her smile was like the sunrise. "David, whatever happens, I won't quit on you. We'll try to make it to the eastern Med together. Agreed?"

"Agreed." I leaned down from the saddle, offering my hand in the classical gesture of a trader closing a deal, smiling back at her.

Ann reached up and we shook. It was the first time I had touched her skin and that touch sealed my future. Until that contact I had considered myself a sort of prisoner, maneuvered into a situation against my will and free to escape from it whenever I could and with profit if possible. After that smile and that handclasp I knew that, like her or not, we were cinched.

Chapter Four
We camped that night too tired to talk, but the next morning while we ate I tried to persuade Ann to tell me about herself. All she would volunteer was her age, twenty-one, and that her father had come from the Enclave.

"Before I was born. When there were still planes flying. Dad was the Enclave's man in Sherando. He died when I was fifteen. The Elders called it enteric fever, but your pills didn't help him. I think they had him poisoned. They'd started to feud with the Enclave by then." She brooded, staring into the cooking fire. "I was left to their mercy. They didn't have much!"

"But they gave you an important job. Radio operator—"

"They had to after Sparks died. I'd been his helper. None of the boys knew anything technical. Bunch of dumb studs!" She gave a short laugh. "It sure bugged 'em, having to let a girl do a man's job because none of the men knew how!"

She had probably bugged him in a dozen different ways. "And your father taught you to ride?"

"My father taught me three things." She rose and began to tack the mare. "To ride—to shoot—and to speak the truth!"

That was not an original program of education, but before I could remember its source she had mounted and was looking down at me. "Also how to fix a guy trying a forceful pass. That was what got me whipped."

I suspected that she had done more than prod some boy in the balls. I switched the subject. "And your mother?"

"God knows!" She swung the mare around and snapped. "She cleared out when I was five."

As we rode toward Esmont I inquired about her plans for reaching the Enclave. I was dismayed to find they were no more definitive than my own. She had a stereotyped response to every problem I foresaw. "We'll jump that creek when we come to it. Right now sweating out possibilities is wasted energy. We head for the coast, find what we can, stick together, and shoot first!"

We agreed to travel via Richmond, about a hundred kilometers to the southeast, for Ann heard that there was still order and a large market in the capital. We learned about local government in rural Virginia when we rounded a bend and faced a gibbet by the side of the road. It bore three putrefying bodies and a crude sign: "Entering Esmont—We Hang Hoodlums."

Ann studied the horrible structure as we rode past. "I thought they put those things on the tops of hills. For maximum exposure."

The spectacle turned my stomach. Not only the unburied corpses, but the sight of a gibbet in the Virginia countryside. "They never had gibbets in this state," I muttered.

"It's the way to mount goons! And wowsers! There's some in Sherando I'd like to frame feet up."

Esmont itself was a typical decaying village, although the gibbet on its outskirts showed it had slid further toward barbarism than most. We rode slowly down Main Street with the elderly men and women on the sidewalks ignoring us until they realized our youth. Then they turned to stare. I felt uncomfortable. The few young people in the valley had been well known and we had never attracted more than passing attention. But out here I was a stranger to everyone.

We halted outside the only store that was operating. I muttered, "We're traders. They don't interfere with traders in these towns. They want to keep them coming back."

Ann nodded. Esmont was making her nervous. "If anyone asks—say I'm your wife."

"Then it's okay for me to do your lying for you? Your dad taught you that too?" My self-confidence was returning, now I was about to trade.

The old storekeeper came from behind his counter to shake my hand. There were few traders coming to Esmont these days. Travel was dangerous, stocks were low, and what did I have?

He was disappointed when I only offered sealed packages of aspirin, but warmed up when I threw some codeine tablets into the deal. We haggled enjoyably through the process of converting the value of my drugs into nonexistent dollars, and then back from dollars into supplies. I selected fresh bread, black-eyed peas, and a chicken. Then I added some women's underwear; coarse garments, too large for Ann's small bust and slim waist, but she already needed a change. "My wife's outside," I explained.

"Your wife?" The oldster was suddenly agitated.

"We're going through to Richmond. What's the safest way?"

"Over by Scottsville, son." He followed me onto the porch, "You two—you shouldn't—" He glanced down Main Street, muttered, "Hoodlums! Get your missus outta town!" and scurried back into his store.

Three elderly, heavily bearded men were riding down the street. They came level with us as I was packing my purchases on the chestnut. One of them yelled, "Young 'uns! Plump young uns!" and all three swung their horses to crowd around Ann's mare.

Main Street was suddenly empty. As empty as Esmont's boast of how it treated hoodlums. Ann tried to turn the mare but one of them had jumped from his horse and caught her bridle. The other two dismounted, hitched their reins to the rail, and the largest and ugliest came and stood at the bottom of the steps, staring at me.

"Morning, Sonny." He grinned through his beard. "Where you from?"

"The valley. We're trading through."

"Looks like you've got some prime merchandise!" He spat in the dirt and strolled around to the far side of the mare. "What's the going price on this?" He slapped Ann's rump.

Her arrogance had evaporated. She pushed at his hand. "Leave me alone! Please! Leave me alone!" She was trembling, and her eyes were wide with fear. She was looking toward me. My guts cramped.

"No harm, baby! Don't get fetched! Long time since I saw a pretty young gal. Or a smooth-faced boy!" All three guffawed. Ann began to sob.

I finished strapping the packs tight and moved back to have my gun hand free, praying I would not need it. The hood at the mare's head was watching me, his left hand holding the bridle, his right on the butt of his pistol. The other two were on her far side, shielded from me, making obscene suggestions to Ann.

Their leader reached his arm up round her waist and started to pull her out of the saddle. She screamed. My anger overwhelmed my caution. "Leave my wife alone—you bearded old bastard!"

"Cool it, Sonny!" The hood at the mare's head started to ease out his gun. "We don't want no shootin'. Just a bit of fun! You'll—"

The mare went mad. She reared, wrenching the bridle from his grasp, spinning him round. She came down, bucking and kicking. She jumped sideways, swiveled, and knocked the two thugs beside her onto the road. Her wheeling flank caught the man staggering back from her head and sent him sprawling onto his face. Ann shrieked her panic as the mare sun-danced across the street.

She'd be killed! I flung myself onto my gray and spurred after her, reaching over to grab the mare's tossing head. Ann stopped yelling long enough to hiss. "Get them! Get them! And fetch the pack horse!"

Bemused, I wheeled back to the store, riding down the leader as he was climbing to his feet From the corner of my eye I saw the mare take off, crab-wise. I jerked the chestnut's lead rein loose and charged down Main Street after Ann with the hoodlums rolling away from my hooves.

We thundered out of Esmont, Ann struggling to manage the mare and I trying to keep my two frantic horses from bolting. After a couple of kilometers she had hers under control and slowed for me to catch up. I found her furious.

"Why the hell didn't you gun 'em down? Couldn't you see I had my hands full?"

"Ann—why?" I was panting as heavily as my horses. "They were on the ground."

"You should have put 'em under it."

I have never knowingly killed a man except when I've had to. "You can't shoot a man on the ground!"

"Can't I? Just watch—first chance I get!" She glared at me, then shrugged, "Anyway—you get full marks for effort."

This was no time to protest her arrogance so I only said, "My mare, she's spirited, but she's not mean. I've never even seen her buck before!"

"And I hope you never will again." Ann leaned forward and smoothed the mare's sweating neck. "Sorry, Lady! But I didn't fancy getting gang-banged in the middle of Main Street."

The mare snorted and we moved on at a fast walk. Presently Ann said, "It's too risky, riding around looking like we do. Tempting every old sod to try a forceful lay."

Her words were crude but her warning valid. "Perhaps," I ventured, "You could dress like a boy." Although in my jeans, shirt, and boots and with her short blonde hair there was not much more we could change and she was still obviously a girl. Curves are curves.

"A boy?" She turned in her saddle to study me. "Those cossacks back there aren't particular. They'll grab anything young with a hole in it. Their boss was eyeing you like he'd prefer yours to mine. They'd have been holding you down too. This isn't the valley, Davy boy!" She laughed at my expression, then added irritably, "Why the hell don't you grow a beard and look your age!"

I muttered that beards were worn by barbarians and I was civilized, but she was not listening. She had had some sudden thought and broke in, "I know! Left at the next crossroad. There's a chance. Trail me!" And she was off again in a spume of red dust.

I held my horses to a canter. The way Ann was riding she would have all my horses lame within a couple of hours. I rode coughing after her, turning at the crossroad and following her wake for several kilometers until I came to an old shopping center. The mare was hitched outside a gutted store on the far side of the plaza.

What the hell was she up to? Such places are unrewarding, for as they foundered the storekeepers had sold off their stocks and years of looting had cleaned out anything left. They are also infested with snakes, so I guided my gray carefully among the bushes and the rusting autos.

I was dismounting when Ann's face appeared at an upper window. "Move it, David! Those goons are trailing us. I can see their dust. Now we'll have to do it all over. Grab your rifle—get inside!" Her voice rose to a shriek. "For Christ's sake—get moving! And this time—make sure!" Her face disappeared.

I tethered my horses beside the mare, collected my rifle and ammunition, and walked carefully up the cracked sidewalk. Then I heard the hammer of hooves and broke into a run, chancing the snakes. I had just reached the store below Ann's window when the three thugs from Esmont came galloping onto the far side of the plaza.

I let go one quick shot, but they had already slid from their horses and were diving for cover among the underbrush and the scattered wrecks. I was looking for targets when Ann hissed from the top of the stairs behind me, 'Hold it! Don't shoot till I say!"

I looked back up—and went on looking. Ann was stripped to her underpants. For one wild moment I thought she was going to walk out onto the plaza and present herself as some kind of propitiatory sacrifice. Her words destroyed that concept. "Watch your front!" she snapped. "Not mine. Keep 'em talking. You're good at that! Use your imagination. Sound scared. Like you're trying to make a deal."

"We can't make a deal with those goons!"

"Sound like you're trying. You probably would if you could!" And she disappeared again.

"Pack it in, sonny!" their leader called. "We don't intend no harm to you nor your missus. Why should we? Fine young "uns bein' so scarce."

I shouted at him to go away and leave us alone. I could hear Ann moving above me. There were guffaws from the trio hidden on the plaza, and I saw one of them make a dash between two wrecked autos. They had lots of cover and if they took their time they could work their way right up to the line of derelict stores with little risk. And while they might not want to kill us they'd sacrifice me to grab Ann.

She called softly from the top of the stairs. "Fire some wild shots. Hold their attention."

"What the hell are you doing?" I hissed. But she had disappeared again, so although I did not see any point in wasting ammunition, I fired several shots across the plaza. As I had no clear targets my shots were indeed wild and drew more guffaws. After our apparent panic in Esmont they must think they were rounding up a pair of terrified incompetents. That might be part of Ann's strategy, but I was, in fact, beginning to feel both frightened and incompetent. My own tactics are to retain freedom to maneuver, not allow myself to be cornered and outflanked.

"Don't let's have no more shooting, son," one of them yelled. "Come out quiet and friendly like. My oath you won't be hurt any. You'll get to keep your gear. You'll be safe on your way by tonight."

I fired in the general direction of the voice.

There was silence for a few minutes, then the speaker called again, considerably closer, "You're trapped proper. You can't reach your hosses. If you bolt out back we'll ride you down. We'll nail you in the end. Make it easy on yourself, sonny. Let's have a go at the girl."

I fired several shots, and must have come close, for the speaker began cursing. "If you don't quit now we'll start by taking the skin off both your backsides!" He went on to describe, in obscene terms, just what they'd do to us if we didn't surrender while we had the chance.

I did not have to feign alarm as I yelled back, demanding some guarantee that they'd let us go after they'd enjoyed their "good time." From the way the thug's voice had begun to thicken I guessed their lust would soon outweigh their caution. In a few minutes they would be close enough to outflank me on both sides. If they reached the row of thin-partitioned stores they would riddle the one in which I was trapped. They would know exactly where I was while I would have only a vague idea of their positions. Once they decided to write me off as potential loot they could kill me and have Ann to themselves.

Their spokesman expressed the same concept "Don't be a fool, sonny! Won't do your girl no good to have you dead. What'll happen to her after you've got yourself killed? For her sake—for your own sake—be sensible!"

"I daren't trust you!" I screamed, looking around for rear exits. My best tactic would be to go out of the back at the last moment and pick them off as they tried to take Ann. They wouldn't be trying to murder her.

"Tell you what, sonny," shouted the voice, encouraged by the shrillness in mine. "You shove the girl out. You stay safe where you are—gun and all. Well bring her back later. That way you'll both stay alive. And you won't get hurt!

They were offering a trade, and trading is my business.

"I'll shove her out if you swear to bring her back in good shape. But I'll need security."

"Security? What d'you mean?"

"One of you to stay in here with me while you've got her. As a hostage. Unarmed. You can swap around so you all get your share."

It was an opening offer and I could hear them discussing it between themselves. To get Ann without risk sounded like a good deal. But they'd never buy it. Not one of those three hoods would trust the other two. To do business with a group its members must have confidence in each other. Which those three did not. They'd argue it over until they found none of them would take the job of first hostage.

They started to shout counter-proposals, and to work their way closer. I readied myself for their rush. I would stay to drop one of them as they crossed the sidewalk. By now they must have quite the wrong idea of my marksmanship. Then I'd go out through the rear of the store before I was trapped by their crossfire.

A rifle cracked from somewhere above me. A man screamed, half-rose from the underbrush, and dropped.

"Christ—he's zapped Charlie!"

"Where the hell—?" The speaker was cut off by another rifle-crack, and I glimpsed something kicking behind a rusted chassis.

The third hood suddenly realized that the rifle was on the roof and that he had moved so close to the building that he'd lost his cover. He then lost his head and started a dash for his horse. I shot him at fifty meters. He went sliding forward on his face. Charlie struggled upright and took two rounds in the chest. The one who was still kicking gave a convulsive jerk and went limp. I stared out onto the silent plaza, wiping the sweat and dust from my face,

There were steps behind me. I turned and gaped, Ann was picking her way down the stairs. She was still half-naked. Her arms, breasts, thighs, and knees were scratched and filthy; she must have crawled on her belly up the shingles to the roof ridge to reach her firing position. I had seen plenty of breasts before, but I had never seen breasts combined with a bushy beard. "That beard! How the hell?

"There's more of 'em up top. You need one too. But first—check those three jerks are kaput." I continued to gape while she walked to the doorway and surveyed the plaza. "Take their guns. Take anything you think you can trade. And bring their horses over. While I'm dressing." She turned, pushed past me, and ran up the stairs, breasts and beard bouncing.

The three were dead and their guns the only worthwhile things on their bodies. I led their horses across the plaza and was hitching them with ours when Ann appeared in the doorway of the store.

Ann—but greatly changed. Ann as a lean old man, wearing the garments he had owned before age had shrunken him. She had a sun-patch on her nose so all I could see of her face was a pair of dark glasses, a flaring beard, and fringes of gray hair, the whole shaded by a slouch hat. She had wound a muffler round her throat and a bulky windbreaker hid any hint of breasts. She had shed my jeans for a shabby pair of loose-fitting pants, but she was still wearing my riding boots. She pulled on a pair of leather gloves and shouted, "For God's sake—get moving! Before the local vultures vector in."

She stuffed my discarded jeans and shirt into the packs and began to strap the captured rifles and gun belts to the saddles of our new horses. "Go up to the loft," she ordered over her shoulder. "There's a bale of synthetic beards on the floor. Bring 'em all. You can choose your style later. Grab anything else you can trade. But hurry!"

The loft was filthy with the dirt of years and had been ignored by a generation of looters. The store below had been some kind of hairdressing establishment and there did not seem much else beside the beards, wigs, and the pile of old clothes from which Ann had made her selection. But instinct told me there must be more, and my few minutes of thought and search were rewarded. I went back to the plaza with the wigs and beards under one arm and a box under the other.

"What the hell have you got there?" asked Ann. She was already mounted and holding the reins of our three new horses.

"Razor blades," I said, fastening the box to a saddle.

"Razor blades! Only a few queers like you shave. Who needs razor blades?"

I looked up at her, sitting bearded and impatient on the mare. "Women do! Most women with any claim to refinement shave at least their legs and armpits. I noticed you don't shave anywhere."

She choked, and started to turn her horses. I pointed to the three sprawled bodies. "We can't leave them like that."

"Can't leave them? What the hell do you mean? There's no cops or coroners around here."

I faced her squarely. "I'm not yet a savage. Those were human beings. I'm not going to let them lie for the wild dogs. There's a pit over there, and I'm putting them into it."

Ann grumbled about superstitious fools while she helped me drag the three corpses to an inspection pit in the wrecked gas station. I used a board to spade some loose nibble over them and felt better for the gesture. Then we trotted out of the plaza, each leading two horses. After a couple of kilometers we stopped to listen for sounds of pursuit.

There was nothing but the buzz of insects and the singing of birds. I lit a cheroot and offered one to her but she waved it away, wrinkling her camouflaged nose. As I smoked I said, "Thanks. You got us out of a real jam."

She shrugged. "You did okay. You put on a good act. Almost convinced me I was going to get turned over to those panderers."

"Ann—I would have never—"

"I know, I know! But you almost got yourself a deal!" She waved irritably at my tobacco smoke. "I looked to see you leaving by the rear when you saw what was out front."

"If they'd rushed me—I would have. Because that would have been best for both of us. But I wouldn't have faded."

"David—I believe you. You're not that kind of quitter. But for God's sake shed some of your hang-ups. Like the ghosts of unburied meat!"

"It has always been considered wise to bury dead enemies. Not because of ghosts. Because of common sense. One's enemies have friends."

"I doubt that bunch had any friends. Or any ghosts either." She touched the mare's flanks with her heels. "Let's move. I'll ride point for the first two hours."

From fifty meters in the rear all I could see of Ann was a slouch hat, shaggy gray hair, and a shapeless wind-breaker slumped on a horse. She was an excellent facsimile of many old traders I have known, and her camouflage was completed by the two horses we were leading. Late in the afternoon we found an empty barn near the remains of Scottsville and made camp. After we had eaten she sat with her beard computing our profits.

"Four good pistols with seventy-five rounds. Two good and one fair rifle with eighty rounds. Three fair horses with tack. One box—"

"And three dead men!" I interrupted, irritated by the blatant avarice of what had been closer to banditry than trade. "Four—if you include your late husband. Plus any you shot on the mountain."

"We have done our bit to clean up this continent," she agreed, staring at me. After a moment she dropped her eyes. "Cracker's not dead. At least he wasn't when I left. I only punctured him."

"You lied to me!" I jumped to my feet, furious at her trickery.

"I never told you Cracker was dead! I said I knifed him. I didn't stick him where he'd die—or be maimed."

"Then how the hell did you get away?"

"I pinned him to a tree root. He was drunk. He fell asleep before he could even screw me. He'll have sobered up and worked himself free by morning. He'll be one mad bear!" She laughed. "Cracker wasn't such a bad bastard. He had his points."

I stood over her, shaking with rage. "Would your father have called that telling the truth? You let me think you'd killed Cracker. Or—"

"Or you'd have tried to trade me back to those pals of yours!" She jumped to her feet, goading herself into a fury to swamp her feelings of guilt. "You'd have made yourself a deal! Got yourself a profit! And I'd have finished with the skin off my back!"

"You couldn't have blamed me." I began to hedge. "We weren't partners then. We hadn't shaken hands."

"I didn't lie to you!" she persisted, her beard flaring.

"Okay, okay. You had reason to con me." I must remember never to introduce her father into the conversation; it raised her to flash point "We're partners now. I'll not renege on our deal. Even if you fooled me into offering it!"

She shrugged, subsided, and changed the subject "You're a trader. Will you be able to move that bale of beards?"

"They're unsaleable. People grow their own these days. False beards were one of those transient fashions. That hairdresser must have got stuck with them. But how did you know they were there?"

"On our last raid. We covered that plaza. I remembered seeing them in that loft. These clothes were a bonus—otherwise I'd have had to wear the gear from one of those things. Ugh!" She shuddered, then added brusquely. 'If there's no market for 'em you'd better pick one for yourself and dump the rest."

"Oh God! Must I? I've always managed to keep myself decently shaved."

"You must! Unless you want to get—"

"All right." I cut her off from some vulgarity, selected a black Van Dyke, and tried it on.

"No!" pronounced Ann. "That doesn't make you look sufficiently decrepit. The idea is to fade into the background. Not excite females. Here—try this." She fished out a combination; the wig straggly and unkempt, the beard gray and stained with imitation tobacco juice.

Reluctantly I put it on, muttering about the disgusting fashions of our grandparents.

"They were degenerate," Ann agreed, inspecting me. "But that's more the current style. You're not going to get anybody horny while you're wearing that thing!"

I fetched the underwear I had bought her in Esmont. "Nor you in these. But you'll sure smell sweeter!"

Chapter Five
We rode toward Fork Union, hidden behind our beards, responding gruffly to the greetings of the other travelers we now began to meet. They saw us as two old traders, slumped silent in our saddles, withdrawing from the present, brooding on the past, typical of the times.

Our disguises were effective but uncomfortable, and Ann's surliness was not assumed. She was a hot-blooded young woman forced to dress like a thin-blooded old man, and as the next day wore on the June heat was made worse by the heavy closeness of approaching thunderstorms. I gave up attempts at conversation, and the first dollops of rain were beginnng to fall when we rode into Fork Union thirty meters apart.

There was a hotel, or rather a modified motel, near the old railroad depot. As we turned into the forecourt Ann spoke for the first time in an hour. "Thank God—tonight we sleep in a bed."

We could, but only if we slept in the same bed. "Most of our guests are permanent," piped the ancient who ran the place. "Not many travelers these days. You'll have to share number eighteen."

Number eighteen contained one large double bed, but that bed was made up with clean starched sheets. I returned from tending all six horses to find Ann stretched out upon it, her head cradled in her hands, staring at the ceiling. I had accepted that it was sensible for her to keep out of sight and leave the horses to me, but I was annoyed by her greeting, "Where's your sleeping bag?"

"In the barn," I said, peeling off my soaked shirt.

"Where do you think you're going to sleep?"

"On half of that bed. We're partners. Remember?"

She sat up, aping shocked surprise. Ann was usually an excellent actress but a failure on that occasion. "Not in my bed?"

"In my half of that bed! Relax! After seeing you shoot down three men what's left of your virtue's safe enough with me."

"I believe that! I know I'm not the right age for you. Maybe not even the right sex! But this is my first clean bed for days and I don't plan to share it with the stables."

"You'll share it with me or well both sleep on the floor! It's wide enough for me to keep out of reach of your claws." .

"Okay, David. Just hold that in mind!" She sprang to her feet "They've still got a dining room operating. Let's try it."

It was an unnecessary risk, but Ann seemed to enjoy taking chances, perhaps to flaunt her skill in nonverbal dissimulation. I followed her into a room filled with elderly men and women slowly masticating steaks. They inspected us with neither warmth nor interest and we were able to take a corner table without being interrogated.

The food was good and we conversed in grunts, both from hunger and fear that our voices would betray our youth. The dining-room decor did not encourage light chatter for it consisted largely of framed quotations dwelling on the shortness of life, the imminence of death, the wages of sin, and the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah. From these, and the talk at the other tables, I recognized Fork Union as one of those ambivalent communities I had encountered in the Valley. Its citizens were watching the destruction of the Cities of the Plain with a satisfaction only slightly reduced by the fact that the Almighty had included their own town in His sentence.

More interesting was that Fork Union still functioned under a partially cash economy. I tried to linger over dessert because I was beginning to pick up useful business tips from the tables nearby, but Ann started to shift around in her seat as the meal progressed. Finally she hissed, "Come on!" and rose abruptly. I was forced to follow her back to our room.

Her squirming had come from physical discomfort rather than subdued anger. The cloudburst had prevented her from strolling outside to go to the John before supper and the sound of the downpour on the roof while we ate had doubtless added psychological suggestion to physiological pressure. Her need to go somewhere was becoming acute.

The toilet in our own room had been boarded up years before when the piped water supply had failed. The inn provided two sex-specific multihole outhouses. Ann, in her beard, obviously could not enter the female preserve and she was wary of the open-fronted stalls in the male. She had put her head around the door and found it functioning as a kind of club, with elderly members tottering in to stand and chat with the other occupants. If she tried to join them they might notice she was unusual.

The rain continued and the demands of nature increased. Finally she let me escort her. I stood in the entrance of her stall, making close conversation to block her from public view and dissuade others from joining in. She did not appreciate my precautions. As soon as we got back to our room she spat, "If ever I saw a dirty-minded old man—you looked the part. Standing there staring at me!"

"I couldn't very well talk to you and watch bald-eagle on the next hole!"

"There's a difference between casual glances and detailed scrutiny. God! Teamed with a crapophile!" A word I suspect she had just invented.

An attitude to natural bodily functions which may be appropriate in a world of flushing toilets is insane in a world of hedges and outhouses. Elements of Ann's upbringing were emerging in unexpected ways. "They fixed a lot of nasty little ideas in your mind at Sherando, didn't they?" I remarked, beginning to remove my beard.

That diverted her annoyance. "You can't take that off! Any more than I can."

"How can I sleep in the damn thing? It itches!"

"You'll itch somewhere else if they catch you without it. And I've got to keep mine on."

"But it suits your character, Ann. You've got more than beards in common with that old bigot I once watched lambaste your backside."

Eventually we got into bed together. Initially Ann had about the same attraction for me as a female boa constrictor; even the mental metaphor made me shudder. But starched sheets were a luxury I had only enjoyed when staying with some of the more house-proud women in the valley and had become a conditioned stimulus. The conditioned response began to emerge. It was a hot night and we gradually shed our clothes until we were only wearing sufficient to confuse anybody who walked in unexpectedly. As I drifted off to sleep I unconsciously eased over toward Ann.

Drowsiness had also loosened her constraints. We gradually arranged our arms around each other and began to explore the ways in which we differed. She differed delightfully, and she seemed to enjoy making her discoveries about me.

I came awake preparing to seal our differences and was rolling her onto her back when she gave a sudden heave and threw me off. "Okay, Mack! That's it! Get to hell back to your side of the bed."

By this time she was naked and the combination of beard, white shoulders, and young breasts was amazing and adorable. "We can't stop now!" I protested. "It'd be physically damaging for both of us."

"It'll be a damn sight more damaging if somebody drifts in. These doors don't lock. And the other guests are wandering around muttering."

To emphasize her point somebody shuffled up to our door and fumbled it half-open while we jerked the sheet over us. The intruder withdrew complaining and we heard him stumble into the next room. "See what I mean?" Ann whispered. "If they get the idea that there's a twenty-one-year-old girl in here I'm liable to be up for grabs, whatever those texts say. And you too, babyface!"

"Then put on your sack-shirt. So they won't be able to sight your twenty-one-year-old tits." My frustration was making me as coarse as her. "I'm interested in your lower half. You can keep that under the sheets."

"No screwing on this journey, Buster," said my partner, pulling the sheet up to her chin and trying to solve the problem of her beard.

"Teamed with a frigid teaser."

She took that as an insult. "I'm not frigid! It's just that balling's too dangerous. The one time I'm off guard. A squadron of heavy dragoons could gallop in while I'm balling—and I'd not notice!"

Fascination with her metaphor blocked my frustration.

"A squadron of heavy dragoons! You dredge some dillies out of your subconscious!"

"Keep your hands off my subconscious." She rolled onto her side and again got confused with her beard. "But I'm glad of one thing, David. You're all man. I'd have hated traveling with a joy-boy."

"With you—I'd be a damned sight better off if I was!"

She giggled.

It was the first time I had heard Ann giggle, and the sound was an irresistible stimulus. I attacked her, but she was more than capable of protecting herself. I only gave up when I began to sense she was enjoying the process while remaining adamant about the outcome. When she finally decided I was no longer responding with sufficient heat for her sport she rolled over saying, "73 and out!"

I lay trying to translate her slang. She used the strangest assortment of words, derived probably from the undisciplined reading and her radio contacts. "Seventy-three," I suspected was radioese, but after only three days with Ann I was already uncertain whether she was using a particularly appropriate term or the first with impact that came into her head. I tried to extract possible meanings from "seventy-three" and constructing mental images to fit the figures made it impossible to fall asleep while she was within reach. My final frustration was having to move onto the floor as the only place I could get any rest.

When we were ready to leave the next morning I haggled for a while with the old man who ran the hotel. After we had made a satisfactory deal I asked about Richmond and the road down the James River. "We're from the Shenandoah Valley," I explained. "We've been out of touch."

"Richmond?" he said squinting up at me as he began to appreciate that I was younger than he had thought. "It's all outside the old city now. Down the James a space. But law-abiding. Leastways it was three years ago, last time I was there. Just keep out of the old city."

"And the river road?"

"Lota of folk using it still. Not so many as did, of course. State Troopers used to patrol it all the way. Now they don't come no farther than Goochland." He sighed.

Ann was waiting impatiently with the horses, and when I joined her she snapped. "What were you gabbing about? We found last night that the road's open."

I waited until we had left Fork Union and then repeated the old man's description of Richmond. She showed no surprise. "I could have told you that. When the power grids began to fail they had to evacuate the cities. No electricity so no heat, no water, no sewers, no nothing. And you can't dig a cesspool in a concrete sidewalk or heat a high-rise with wood."

Her assumption of omniscience irritated me. I knew a great deal about the social causes of the Chaos and there was much more to it than a mere breakdown of technologies. "How come you know such a hell of a lot? You've never seen a city!"

"I'm a radio operator. Since I was ten years old I've been working stations on every continent. Chatting with people all over the world."

"Exchanging exhortations with places like Sherando!"

"Balls! There used to be a lot more stations on the air besides those in the settlements. While you were screwing your way up and down the valley I was learning about what went on outside."

"Honey—there are just two things that intrigue me in your past."

She took off her sunglasses and turned in her saddle to study me. The hair covering her face made her look like a rat peering out of a shank of wool. "And what are they, Buster?"

"First—our initial meeting. What had you really done to collect that hiding? I'm only sure you didn't get all you deserved."

"Check! And what else rouses your salacious interest?"

"Why did the Elders really add you to their list of marketable girls? I'm beginning to suspect you pulled something that would have got anybody else hung."

She glared at me, then said, "You've got insight, David! Real insight! They did give me a choice. Out—or the drop!"

But why? What did you do?"

"I've told you. They wanted to get rid of me. I knew too much about their row with the Enclave. And I could ride and shoot better'n any of 'em. Me—a woman!"

"Who did you shoot? The Elders are bigots. But they wouldn't threaten to hang a woman for arrogance. They'd just flog her."

"I didn't shoot anybody! Not in the settlement anyway." She struggled with her conscience and we rode in silence for several minutes. Then she said, "I broke one of their damnfool regulations. They used it as a pretext."

"Which regulation?"

"You pick away, don't you, David?" She shrugged. "I made a chemical I needed. A solvent. I had to etch some circuitry. No sweat—it was in the books."

"You got permission, of course?"

"Those old fools don't know any chemistry!"

"And you don't know any history! So you didn't get the okay. You just went ahead and made the stuff. A solvent? Was it a solvent called ZPT by any chance?"

"Yes! But how the hell did you guess?" I whistled. "Brother—if they caught you making ZPT inside Sherando you were lucky not to be drawn and quartered before being hung!"

"Why? For God's sake? It's harmless. It was used in all kinds of industrial processes. Nontoxic—one of its advantages."

"Ann," I said slowly. "I don't know much technology. But I do know something about Pharmaceuticals—including their history. Ever heard of Impermease?"

"No."

"But you must have heard of Bancan, and Noncon, and Mogro?"

"Sure," she said uneasily. "Noncon was the contraceptive that sterilized unborn girls. When a woman stopped taking it she could get pregnant. But there were still traces of it left in her—I don't know how it worked. But years later, when her daughter tried to get pregnant—she couldn't. What's that got to do with ZPT?"

"Noncon was the same stuff as Bancan and Mogro. Impermease. Prevented division in some kinds of cells. Cancer cells—Bancan. Insect pupa—Mogro. Fertilized ova—Noncon. In humans a trace was enough. So Impermease was a perfect contraceptive, a cancer prophylactic, and a prime pesticide. Cheap and nontoxic. The answer to famine, over-population, and cancer. They made it by the megakilo. And almost wiped out the human race."

"I know—" she started impatiently.

"You don't!" I looked at her. "Every month your ovaries release an egg that was formed and stored more than six months before you were born. You were born with every fertilizable egg you'll ever have already inside you."

"When I want a lecture on reproductive physiology—"

"Whatever way a woman got Impermease some of the stuff was stored in her uterine muscles. When she stopped taking it she could get pregnant. But traces of Impermease reached the fetus. If the fetus was female its eggs were sterilized. They found that out maybe twenty years later. When the girls who wanted kids tried to get 'em—and couldn't!"

"But I was making ZPT. A common commercial solvent. To etch circuits. Not to eat!"

"ZPT—" I paused for effect. "ZPT was the industrial precursor of Impermease."

"Christ!" Ann breathed. "Did I—? Have I—?"

"No danger! The ZPT molecule has to be changed quite a bit to make it biologically active. But of course it was banned with all the rest of the group. The Elders wouldn't know why. For them it was post 1990 and so evil by definition."

Ann did not attempt to riposte. She rode in subdued silence trying to stomach the fact that rules sometimes have logic. She was an excellent example of the peril of historical ignorance. And the Elders showed how rational decision becomes superstition when separated from its historical context.

"David," she asked presently, "How come you know so much about all this?"

"My father explained it. In detail. He made sure I understood." I glanced at her face. "Want to know why?"

"Please."

"My mother was a Sherando girl. So she had never been exposed to Impermease."

"And?"

"She left the settlement to marry my father. When she got pregnant they—they found she had cancer. The test said I was a girl. So she wouldn't take Bancan. By the time they found I was a boy—even Bancan couldn't save her. She died to protect her daughter. Only I wasn't a daughter!" I spurred my gray to ride ahead.

Presently Ann came up beside me. "Your mother was a girl with guts!" She hesitated. "But you've got a bastard for a grandfather. Your mother was the Patriarch's daughter, wasn't she?"

I nodded.

Chapter Six
We rode toward Richmond looking like two old men and squabbling like a pair of selfish children. The June heat made our beards almost unbearable and Ann's scarf, topcoat, and temper kept her on the verge of apoplexy. When I tried to get close to her she moved away, so that we traveled in a cloud of frustration, anger, and red dust.

The frustration was mine. I had often fantasized meeting a girl who possessed intelligence and beauty; now I was riding with one who had both and I could enjoy neither. Ann's beauty was masked by her beard and her intelligence by her attitude. Repulsed physically, I attempted to make verbal contact, but the only subjects she would discuss without heat were those of immediate practical importance.

For example, the day after we had left Fork Union I reined alongside her and repeated my question about the Enclave. "Is civilization really surviving there?"

"They're making transistors and turbines—from scratch!"

"That's not civilization. You can't equate civilization with technology."

"Maybe not But you can't have civilization without it."

"Civilization isn't things, Ann. It's in people. Civilization is an attitude of mind. A view of society."

"You pompous intellectualizing creep!" She slapped a horsefly on the mare's shoulder, reducing it to a bloody pulp. "You've lived soft for ten years by looting stuff that was stored for the future. Not for you to plunder!"

"But we are the future," I protested. "God—what a prospect! Don't feed me any more crud abstractions. The spiritual outweighing the material. That's how the Elders talked—while they were mounting machine guns."

She was an unwitting hypocrite. She had a talent for commerce and her own share of cupidity. We traded profitably in the markets we passed through, and she quickly learned the techniques of a barter economy based on nominal dollars. A system in which a trader with a sense of comparative values and skill in mental arithmetic can make a reasonable gain on every trade and live by rate of turnover rather than size of stock. She was a sharp trader with those who had something to trade, although she tended to be overgenerous to those with nothing. She sneered at me as a parasite on the past but she herself enjoyed taking a profit.

In spite of her beard and her temper she remained a constant stimulus, for I knew the beauty beneath the disguise. She was the first girl younger then myself whom I had ever been near, and my glands responded. Sometimes, when our horses edged beside each other, I would catch the scent of her body. Ann smelled as any healthy girl can be expected to smell after riding horseback for days in suffocating clothes through a Virginian June, but when I got a whiff of her my knees would tighten involuntarily and my gray would jump forward. And she would laugh.

We were not a heroic pair. Looking back, I can see that we were not at all admirable. Yet each of us in our own way wanted to be. Ann's accusation was true. For ten years I had played the quack and the gigolo up and down the valley, but I had given pleasure to a lot of women. I had tried to treat the sick and when I had known what to do I had done my best. Every few months I had risked my life riding up into the mountains to bring back the drugs they needed.

I see us as children masquerading as adults, goaded by the instincts of young animals. Children who had been forced by circumstances to learn the lethal skills and stratagems we had needed to survive. Lonely children who had stuffed their heads with unstructured knowledge. And we were both haunted by our different visions of the world as it should be while we rode through the wreckage of a world that was. A world destroyed by a childishness more selfish and vicious than our own.

We entered Richmond on June 15th and left it two weeks later. I had not planned on such a short stay, for after we had taken over a comfortable house backing on the river and set up our stall in the market I began to enjoy the comparative civilization of life in the capital. I tried to persuade Ann that it would be wisest to winter in Richmond while we prepared properly for our voyage, but she insisted we push on during the good weather. I objected that we had not been able to find a suitable boat, so she bought a locally built sailing scow and began to convert our capital into items she imagined would sell with maximum profit in the Mediterranean. Her plan was to go down the James in search of a vessel to take us across the Atlantic.

I humored her, believing that she would soon be convinced by the logic of events. But logic had little effect on Ann once she had made up her mind, nor did she try to convince me by rational argument. She simply forced my hand. On the afternoon we left I was sleeping by the river while Ann was supposed to be operating our stall in the market. The first warning I had of our departure was when she came galloping down the driveway and slid to the ground at our wharf. She had been riding bareback.

"Where's your saddle?" I asked.

"Sold it. Sold yours too. And the gray." She tethered the mare to an apple tree. "Good-bye, Lady. Many thanks. Your new owner's a decent man. I made sure of that. He's coming to collect you in an hour."

"You've sold my mare?"

"Sold everything we're not taking. Here's the proceeds. I did all right." She lifted a pair of bags down from the mare's withers. "Mostly silver. Some gold." She swung on me when I began to expostulate. "I've sold all those capsules you spent three evenings filling. That was when you planned to unload them, wasn't it? Just before our exit?"

It would do no good to call her the dishonest little bitch she was. Sold cautiously, to selected customers, those capsules would have been effective medication, for their colors were the same as certain of the sedatives and minor tranquilizers that people remembered and were anxious to obtain. But a sale without discrimination, such as Ann had evidently made, carried the risk that some suspicious hypochondriac might open a capsule and taste the contents. That would not only destroy their efficacy; it would wreck my reputation, and involve me in the painful procedures of Richmond criminal law.

So after I had grasped the implications of her act, cursed her bitterly, and sworn that if we were caught I would make certain she was flogged too, I did not argue but sweated to help her load the last of our gear. When we were ready to leave I asked, "My gray? Who did you sell him to?"

"The sheriff. He treats his horses well. But he's rough with shysters."

I stood with the mooring line in my hand, looking regretfully back at the house I was being tricked into losing. Perhaps—

"Come on, David," urged Ann. "Let's go! The guy who bought all those yellow ones was from the hospital. Seemed delighted to get 'em. Want to stay around and discuss the deal with the hospital management? If so—jump ashore! I don't fancy a session under the rawhide myself!"

Neither did I.

I cast off the lines, seized the sweeps, and rowed the scow toward midstream where the current was strongest and would carry us away from Richmond as fast as possible. Then I shouted at Ann to help me set the lug-sail.

We had never tried to sail the scow before. I had intended to let Ann's first experience of a boat under sail demonstrate the unseaworthiness of the vessel she had purchased. I had planned to take her out on the river the next day for I was sure that once she had sailed in the scow she would realize the foolishness of trying to sail down the James in it.

Now I was stuck with an escape craft that resembled a barge more than a boat. As we struggled to get the mast up and the loose-footed sail hoisted Ann complained, "This isn't like any sail I've seen in your books."

"Nor this tub either. It's primitive. Easy to build. Hell to sail. Thank Christ we've got a fair breeze." I grabbed the tiller and the lugsail billowed out. "Now sit down and keep out of the way. You crazy, irresponsible little crook!"

The traffic was heavy close to Richmond, for as transportation had reverted to the river so had human habitations. The banks along the first few kilometers were crowded with wharves, storehouses, and homes, but by dusk the buildings had thinned and we were sailing past woods and farms. I relaxed as the threat of pursuit decreased and renewed my abuse of Ann. She refused to argue but stretched out on the bottom-boards and went to sleep.

I ran aground soon after sunset. Ann sat up, noted we were still out on the river, and went back to sleep, leaving me to strike the sail and sit fretting all night in the damp darkness. When dawn came with a heavy mist I woke Ann and went overside to shove the scow off. I got my shoulder under its stern. It slid into deep water more easily than I had expected, leaving me up to my knees in mud while it drifted away into the fog. I had to swim after it and by the time I had dragged myself over the transom I was exhausted. Ann had been no help at all. "Your beard's coming off," she said, as I lay wet, filthy, and gasping at her feet.

I released a lot of venom during the next few minutes and was only cut off by a steam barge looming out of the fog. Again Ann gave me no help as I maneuvered us away from danger, and we continued downstream in hostile silence. But as the farms along the banks became more derelict the farther we went from Richmond the sense of returning desolation drove us back together, and we were at least talking to each other when we moored for the night.

The pattern continued during the next few days and I began to instill into her some elementary concepts of seamanship. To give her credit she listened attentively to what I told her, and I began to feel some responsibility for her as a person. She was a classical example of overcompensation, a girl who had reacted against the tyranny of the Elders by attempting to play the male role. Her success in learning how to use male weapons had frozen her into a set of inappropriate responses. I tried to enlighten her about herself because I felt that more insight into her own motivations would help her become a happier person. Her defense mechanisms denied her any such introspection.

"Insight make me happier? I'm happy now. I'm happy because I've got a reason for living—to reach the eastern Med? Isn't that what you're always preaching? Adjust to reality? Brother—am I adjusted! If I live long enough I'll even adjust to this sailing business!"

"Ann—it helps everybody to know the working of their own psyche."

"You want me to take off the inspection covers just to watch the wheels go round? Maybe you'd like to slip a little sand in the works? Any way to a lay!"

By that time I'd have taken off anything that she'd have let me, used any technique of persuasion that promised success. Our first day on the river Ann had shed her beard, and thereafter most of her clothes, so I could see that our rest and good food in Richmond had filled her out more to my taste. Her hips and rump were now closer to the female than the slim thighs and small bottom I had glimpsed in the firelight. But her attitude as we floated down the James had not changed. She had not included a sex clause in our partnership agreement.

Chapter Seven
South of Jamestown we faced our first major decision. Ahead of us was the merged complex of Newport News, Hampton, Portsmouth, and Norfolk. Everything I had heard in Richmond had warned me of its dangers. All the old cities were nests of evil but this complex was also the breeding ground of river pirates who extracted tribute from any trader regularly going up-river and doubtless robbed those they did not judge would be a source of recurring income. Even more ominous had been rumors that these gangs included younger men with machine guns and power launches.

But so far we had found no seaworthy hull, and only a few that could be made seaworthy after much labor. "We had investigated every place along the river that looked as if it had once contained sailboats. We had trailed through wrecked marinas, yacht clubs, and yards. They had all been looted long before, and it seemed as if anybody who had owned a decent sailboat when the Chaos commenced had sailed off in her. There were plenty of wrecked power boats, but without fuel they were useless hulks.

Late one afternoon, a week out of Richmond, we moored alongside an old wharf underneath a faded sign that warned us we were trespassing on the property of the Eastern Virginia Yacht Club. After a desultory search of the yard showed no promising hull among the wrecked cruisers we came back to our scow and Ann began to set up the cooking equipment. She was a good cook when she cared to be and had found an old metal box to serve as an oven, announcing she was going to make biscuits, apple pie, and Brunswick stew. I persuaded her to break into our capital and add a pot of coffee as a luxury, and I stood smoking and talking while she prepared supper.

"We've got two choices," I pointed out. "We can hang around on the river between here and Richmond until they've forgotten about us and it's safe to go back. Or we try to run the gauntlet of Newport News in this damn hulk—and God knows what we'll find if we do reach the bay."

"We can't go back to Richmond, with or without beards, that's for sure." Ann looked up, her face flushed from the fire. "They're not going to forget your tranks for a long time. Remember the thrashing the sheriff gave that guy and his woman? The ones who were peddling Johnson grass seed as mutated alfalfa?" I remember, and swore.

"Besides, we've got a goal. Your prerequisite for happiness! We're going to the Mediterranean. The Enclave's what gave you the guts to get out of the valley. There are girls there!" She returned to her cooking. Presently she said, "If we don't find a better boat when we reach the Chesapeake then we'll have to cross the Atlantic in the one we've got."

"Cross the ocean in that thing? Are you crazy?"

"We can try." She had been reading my books. "People have done it in almost anything that could float. They've rowed across. They've paddled across. One guy did it in a barrel. Another in an amphibious jeep—whatever that is, but from the picture it looked less seaworthy than our scow. Someone tried to cross on a pair of water-walkers!"

"He drowned."

"But he got almost halfway." She handed me a plate of stew and some biscuits, ignoring my protests that she had no real idea of the might of the open ocean. "You've never seen a real wave in your life either, David."

We had started on our meal when Ann laid her plate on the ground, gestured me to silence, and walked softly toward a shed at the end of the wharf. She hesitated by the door, then charged inside in a classic combat maneuver. There were sounds of a scuffle and I was getting to my feet on the unlikely assumption that she had at last encountered something she couldn't handle, when she emerged pushing an old man in front of her.

"He was watching us." Ann gripped the old fellow's scrawny arm and shook him. "Who else is spying?"

He did not seem to understand, made no effort to escape, and stood staring at our food. I gave him a biscuit He took it silently and began to munch noisily.

Ann let go his arm. "I'm going to check. You watch this specimen."

The old man finished his biscuit and stood looking at the stew. I ladled him a plateful and gave him a spoon. He squatted down and began to wolf it greedily.

I asked, "Who are you?"

He smiled but did not reply until the stew was gone from his plate. Then he stood up. "My name is Whitmore. I am the Commodore of this club. Or rather the Acting Commodore. Glad to have your boat alongside. Sorry I wasn't on deck to welcome you."

"How are you, Mister Whitmore? We're glad to be here. My name's David Randolph. And this is Ann—" I discovered I did not know her last name.

She came striding back down the wharf. "The place is clear."

"Let me introduce Commodore Whitmore," I said.

"Gerald Whitmore," added the old man. The food had put new life into him. "Perhaps you'll excuse me for a few minutes. I'm not dressed to receive visitors." He smiled at me, bowed to Ann, and started to hobble toward the shed.

She moved to grab him, but I stopped her. "He can't go far."

"A gun kills in anybody's hands. Even in the hands of an old nut." She strolled after him.

I shrugged. During my years of trading I had met many old men who had reverted to earlier dream worlds. They were seldom dangerous, often courteous, and usually interesting. I put the remains of Ann's stew back into the pot and finished my own. Then I set the coffee to percolating. I was washing the dishes when I heard Ann say, "Great Christ!"

The old man had reappeared, but transformed into a splendid figure. He had shaved. He had put on a navy blue jacket with brass buttons, a pair of browning white pants, and white shoes. He wore a peaked yachtsman's cap with a grayish top.

He stood looking around. God knows what he was seeing! Then he bowed to Ann. "Welcome, Mrs. Randolph." He tottered down the wharf with Ann trailing astern. "Indeed, sir, it is a pleasure to have you with us." I saw the desire in his eyes.

"Perhaps you would care to join us for coffee?" I suggested.

Ann was expostulating about valuable stores while I was pouring him a cup. "Black," he said. "If you please. No sugar. I have to watch my weight."

Ann took a cup for herself and subsided, grumbling, onto a bollard. She had no use for play-acting unless she was the star. "What the hell were you doing hiding in there?" she demanded.

These old men tend to ignore any remark that does not fit into their private fantasy. I rephrased her question. "You're living in the club, Commodore?"

"Temporarily. My home is a few kilometers up the river. You may have noticed it as you sailed down. A white colonial mansion on a promontory. Some exceptionally fine oaks on the front lawn."

We had noticed the promontory and the oak trees, but no mansion.

"When I became Acting Commodore I took up my residence in the club." He accepted a cheroot. "I have my responsibilities, you know."

"Do you have any sailboats in this junkyard?" asked Ann.

"You wish to change your class of boat, Mrs. Randolph?" He studied our scow.

"We do. If you could tip us off to something suitable for open water we might pay a commission—a quarter kilo of coffee and a box of cheroots." One of Ann's talents as a trader was her sensitivity to a customer's tastes.

The old man considered. "I'll ask among the membership. I'll look around myself. What kind of a trip are you two contemplating? Across the Chesapeake perhaps?"

"Across the Atlantic," I said.

He put his cup down carefully, turned to face me, and said in a perfectly sane voice, "You're going to try it?"

"If we can find a boat."

He stared, then senility returned. "I'll do my best to help you. It has always been the policy of this club to assist visiting yachtsmen." He retrieved his coffee and puffed on his cheroot.

"Do you know of anything?" Ann persisted.

"There is, I believe, in the Secretary's office a list of members who have boats they wish to sell or charter. If you will excuse me for a few minutes I will go and consult it." He stood up and walked toward another dilapidated structure.

"Crazy old fool!" commented Ann."

"We all need our dream worlds, so we can survive in this one. Including you and I."

"Skip the bromides!" Ann got truculent when she felt guilty. "You're absent from my dream world. And don't be so free with our coffee. It's valuable!"

"The Commodore's coming back." The old man had re-emerged and was trotting toward us, smiling.

"I think I may have just the boat for you, Mister Randolph. I'm afraid there is nothing suitable for sale. But one of our members has a sixty-foot veralloy ketch he is willing to charter."

"A sixty what?" asked Ann. "Feet?"

"Twenty meters, madam," said the Commodore sharply. "Many sailboat owners are traditionalists. But whether you refer to her in meters or feet she is too large for the two of you to handle alone. However her owner is willing to sail with you to bring the crew up to strength."

That was the first time I had ever seen Ann blush, but her manners did not improve. "Does this sixty-foot sailboat happen to be yours? Because if so—where the hell is it?" And she waved her hand over the collection of wrecks sunk at the piers or beached in the yard.

"She is mine," admitted the Commodore. "She is berthed up river. On my estate."

"We saw the oak trees as we came past. There was a burned-out house behind 'em. But we didn't see any boat."

"I would have been disappointed if you had!" Ann's barbs were stinging the Commodore to life. "I hid her carefully from prying eyes many years ago."

"How long ago, sir?" I asked.

He was mollified by the honorific. "About thirty years, I should say." He rubbed his forehead. "Perhaps forty."

"Thirty years—what shape will she be in now?"

"Excellent, I trust. I cocooned her with the best foam."

"Cocooned her! How? And why?"

The Commodore sat down on a bollard and held out his cup. I refilled it, gave him another cheroot, and he began to talk calmly and rationally. "When it became apparent that I could sail her no more, and when I found I lacked the resolve that you and your wife are showing, I followed the exhortations of the teacher. When he told us to preserve our most valuable possessions. Items that would be helpful to our descendants when they emerged from the coming Chaos. Things that could help to restore civilization. My most valuable possession was Sabrina—that is the name of my ketch. I cocooned her and never thought to see her again. I had no hope that somebody might be needing her in my lifetime. But when you two young people arrived. When I saw the courage and determination on your faces—"

"And when you drank our coffee!" muttered Ann.

"Yes, my dear. When I drank your coffee. I have not tasted coffee—it is not so long I cannot remember. Coffee is not grown on this continent, you know. The fact that you served it freely, as in the old days, was proof to me that the Chaos must be finishing. That it is time to bring Sabrina out of care and preservation."

While his logic was not clear I gathered that the coffee had triggered something within his dream. "When can we inspect your boat, sir?"

"Tomorrow, if you wish."

"That'll do fine," I said.

"Perhaps you'll spend the night on ours, Commodore." Ann added. "So you won't go off and tell the rest of the membership that coffee is back."

"I should be delighted to sleep on your boat, Mrs. Randolph."

"Before we turn in I'd enjoy seeing the club, sir," I said.

"I always take a stroll after dinner," said the Commodore. "Like to see that everything's shipshape and Bristol fashion. And I'd be delighted if Mrs. Randolph and yourself care to accompany me." As we started down the wharf he patted his pockets. "I seem to have left my cigars in my locker. Do you happen to have one about you?"

I gave him a cheroot and we got an escorted tour of the remains of the Eastern Virginia Yacht Club. The Commodore had a variety of useful items hidden among the rubbish. His particular pride was a small fiberglass sailing dinghy, moored between the wrecks of two cabin cruisers so it was invisible from both the wharf and the river, and which we ourselves had overlooked during our rapid search of the yard.

"Tomorrow," he said, "It would be wisest to use my dinghy to sail up to Sabrina."

"And leave our scow to be looted?" said Ann impatiently.

"You can berth your boat where my dinghy is hidden. On the river she will attract less attention than your scow. She is familiar to the people around here." He gave a gentle smile. "And they know I keep grenades in her!"

"Well decide on transportation in the morning," I said, helping him aboard the scow and shifting the stores around so he had room to stretch out under the foredeck. The old man was delighted with the arrangement. He had probably been sleeping alone for decades.

The next morning he emerged from the cuddy while Ann was still asleep and climbed stiffly onto the wharf. "Better get out of my Number Ones," he said, sniffing at the ham and eggs I was frying. "I'll go and change into working rig. Back for breakfast." He hesitated. "Do you happen to have such a thing as a spare razor blade, Mister Randolph?"

I pressed a whole package on him and he went walking away down the wharf. Ann started objecting when she woke and found him gone, but she was usually objectionable on waking in the morning. "Why the hell did you let the old fool go wandering away? If the word spreads we've got coffee every goon and freeloader in the area will zero in!"

The return of the Commodore saved me from further criticism. He was dressed in cleanish coveralls and had a sheath knife strapped to his belt. He also had a large tool box. "We'll need gear to strip off the cocoon," he explained, sitting on the edge of the wharf after helping himself to ham, eggs, and biscuits. "Will you be serving coffee again?"

"We may—after we've seen that boat of yours." Ann was beginning to take the Commodore more seriously now that he was dressed in working clothes. When he had finished eating she gave him one of my cheroots and he sat smoking and staring across the river.

"We've got a fresh beam wind. The dinghy should get us up there in half an hour."

The scow's only response to a wind was to run before it or slide sideways, so there was no question about which boat we should use. We moved the scow around to the hidden berth and shifted to the dinghy. Ann sat tense in the bows as the old man hoisted the sail and we started upstream.

We foamed along under the morning breeze. Ann grabbed the thwarts every time we heeled. She must have thought that all sailboats behaved like the scow. She was in for some shocks if Sabrina proved to be more than a part of the Commodore's dream. Watching him handle the tiller and sheets I began to think his dream ship might be real. Our coffee had renewed his sanity and sailing restored his common sense. As the oak trees came into view he said, "We must attract as little attention as possible and work as fast as we can. I don't want to encourage my neighbors to visit. They're an uncouth bunch."

He tacked up under the promontory to an overgrown jetty, and we jumped out to help him pull the dinghy under some willows. Then he hurried, limping a little, across what had once been a lawn. He hardly glanced at the burned-out shell of a mansion standing back from the river but led us to a stagnant creek behind it, and pointed to a collapsed boathouse.

"There!" he said with satisfaction, "Nobody has broken in."

"There!" snapped Ann, her acerbity returning now that she was back on land. "Is that your boat?" She nodded at the sunken remains of a hull lying across the slipway from the boathouse.

"Oh dear me, no! That's a blind. I sank that myself." He dodged under the overhanging vines as we followed. The roof of the boathouse was sagging. At one end, above the water, was a great pile of debris. The Commodore stopped in front of it. "Untouched," he said with pride. "After all these years!"

"That?" snorted Ann. "You've brought us here to show us that heap of junk?"

"Underneath, Mrs. Randolph." The old man began to pull at a scrap of fabric which hung from the rubbish. A shower of dirt fell away. I tugged with him. It peeled off in an avalanche of debris. Then, suddenly revealed, I saw the outline of a hull.

"Christ!" Ann grabbed another corner of the fabric and pulled with us. The old man drew his knife and began to slash at the ropes that emerged from beneath the rubble. "Go—get my tool box!" he called over his shoulder. "The cocoon's intact."

I fetched his box from the dinghy and we set to work digging at the dirt and pulling down the layers of synthetic canvas which had shrouded the hull. Then we began to cut at the white foamy sponge beneath.

The heat and dust made the boathouse stifling and presently all three of us staggered out into the open air. I panted, "How the hell did you manage all this?"

The Commodore sat on a fallen tree. "The Navy Yard. They started to cocoon the Atlantic Fleet, you know. As though the most important thing to preserve for our descendants was a hydrofoil battle squadron. They were quite crazy!" The old man shook his head. "But I took a job in the Yard and liberated equipment and supplies after they lost their enthusiasm. I worked there to get the stuff to preserve Sabrina." He clambered back to his feet. "Come, children. We have to get her out of here before they learn about us in Norfolk."

He was an old man who had been living on corn and catfish for years, but he paced us through the day, and by nightfall the whole twenty-meter veralloy hull was clear. It looked immense, as did the masts and booms cradled beneath it.

"The sails and rigging are aboard." The Commodore was chuckling with joy.

"She's so huge we'll never be able to get her into the water," I objected.

"There are rails in the dirt under the cradle. We can grease the skids and winch her down by hand," said the Commodore in utter confidence.

"Does that thing have an engine?" Ann was staring suspiciously up at the hull.

"A turbine." The Commodore stood in the gloom stroking the smooth keel. "The most modern. Hardly any got fitted to pleasure boats. But I got one for her!"

"Will it run? Have you got fuel?" Ann persisted.

"I don't know much about engines, but it should run when we've removed the preserving grease. Fuel? I stored her with full tanks, and they claimed those miniturbines will run on almost anything. After all, oil stays in the ground for millions of years. So it should have lasted for thirty in her tanks, eh?"

"We'll find out tomorrow," I said. "Now—we need sleep."

We sailed back down the river in the darkness and the Commodore took us straight in among the wrecks to his berth. Ann immediately checked our capital and then left me to cook supper while she prowled through the shadows of the yard. Ann got uneasy when things were going well. But she did not object when I made coffee for the second night running, and gave the Commodore a second cup.

He woke us at dawn, and as we ate breakfast he urged us to hurry. "We must have her seaworthy within two days. Once we've moved her out of the boathouse somebody's sure to see her. The gang in Norfolk will hear, and they'll send a launch up."

Ann stopped eating. "They have power boats?"

"A few. They are gangsters—pirates! And they are not all old. Sabrina would be a prize for those vermin." The Commodore's face contorted. "I will sink her first."

"How are they armed?" asked Ann.

"Automatics. Machine guns. They looted my home. Burned my house!" He scowled, then cackled, "But they did not find my ship!"

"Then we work right through." I stood up. "Ann, let's shift the rifles, ammunition, and food into the dinghy." As we sailed back upstream I noticed that on this trip she spent more time checking the weapons than gripping the thwarts.

Sabrina's decks were a mass of fiberfoam and trailing vines. Her cockpit was filled with rubbish. We cleared sufficient to reach the companionway hatch, dragged it open, and went down into the main cabin. We entered a new world.

A meticulously ordered little world. Everything secured, marked, packed, sprayed with preservative. The Commodore stood looking round in the dim light from the hatch. "Perfect! Perfect!" he breathed. "I spent years aiding her to survive. She has everything."

"Where's the radio?" asked Ann.

"The radio? Oh, I'm afraid I gave that away, my dear. An old friend needed it."

"Did he need the engine too? I can't see one."

"Here!" The Commodore opened a hatch below the companionway and pointed into the space.

Ann pushed past me. "A mini turbine! Like you said. I've never seen one. How beautiful!" She hunkered down into the small engine compartment.

It drives an impeller in the keel tunnel," explained the Commodore proudly. "No drag—nothing to break the line of the hull."

Ann was entranced by her new toy. I brought her back to reality. "We've got to get her into the water before you can start playing with that."

Launching Sabrina had looked impossible but only proved difficult. We ran lines to trees on both banks of the creek, greased the skids, and used the job winches to inch her out of the boathouse and onto the slipway. Then she took over for herself and went careening down into the water. Her stem knifed through the old hull and she charged across the creek toward the river, until the lines checked her. She lay afloat, rocking gently.

"There's veralloy for you!" said Ann, more impressed by the way Sabrina had cut her way to the creek than by the fact she was floating in it.

We hauled her over to the bank nearest the ruins of the mansion, and Ann attacked the engine. She seemed to think that once we got that going all our troubles would be over. The Commodore only knew enough to stop and start it, and my knowledge of turbines was nil. But Ann, although she had never encountered a miniturbine before, went at it with enthusiasm. I sweated beside her in the cramped engine compartment, squeezing my flywheel flashlight as we cleared away the grease and preservative.

It was dark before we climbed back to the cockpit with Ann announcing, "It'll run—once we've got it started."

Apparently batteries were the problem. The bromide batteries had been stored dry so they would last, but when filled with rainwater they still needed a charge. The best Ann could get from them was a weak spark.

"Not a hope of them turning the engine over," she said in disgust.

"The batteries will charge when she's under sail," mentioned the Commodore. "There's an alternator spinner in the impeller tunnel."

"Not much help there!" snapped Ann.

I thought of my flywheel flash. "Maybe we could turn it by hand? Get a charge that way?"

"You ignorant pill-peddler!" I bore the full brunt of Ann's frustration. "If you care to sit twiddling the spinner for the next twelve hours you might put enough charge into the batteries to spark a fart!" She returned cursing to the deck.

"Get some rest, my dear," quavered the Commodore. "Think about it again in daylight."

After bickering awhile we fell asleep on top of the rubbish in the cockpit, and we slept too late. The sun was up when I was wakened by Ann squeezing my shoulder and whispering, "Quiet! Listen!"

From out on the river came the mutter of a motor. The old man's face was starting to work. "Here they come. Looking for me. Looking for my ship! But they won't have her!" His expression settled into a mask of senile fury.

"Mister Whitmore," said Ann. "Stay in the cockpit. Entice them alongside. We'll be across the creek. We'll take them first chance we get."

The Commodore was staring toward the river, muttering to himself, giving no sign that he had heard her. Ann did not wait to make sure he understood, but tugged at my arm. "Come on, David. We've got some more shooting."

We went crouching, around the end of the creek, and took positions behind a couple of fallen trees, hidden by bushes but with a clear view of Sabrina some seventy meters across the water. Moments later an open motor launch came nosing into the creek, with five men standing in the well, all armed. The man in the bows shouted, "What have you got there, Pop?"

"Go away—go away—you scoundrels!" the old man shrieked, waving his arms.

"Allus figgered you'd got something stashed away up here, Pop. Mind if we come aboard and look over your boat?"

He caught Sabrina's rail as the launch moved alongside, laughing up into the face of the gesticulating Commodore. The helmsman put the motor into neutral. The other three had rifles in their hands and were staring warily at the banks of the creek. They were all under middle-age and Iheard one growl, "The old fool couldn't have launched her alone!"

"They've got a radio!" Ann whispered. "They mustn't have a chance to use it. I'll take the guy steering. You start with the one up front. Fire when I do—and for Christ's sake shoot to kill."

I set the chest of my target on my sights. At seventy meters I could hardly miss. But I doubted we could zap the other three before they were behind cover and shooting back. Then we would be for it, and the Commodore would get it first Ann had a fixation about ambushes. For all her attempts at playing the man she fought like a woman.

The leading thug started to clamber aboard Sabrina. Something arced from the Commodore's gesticulating arms down into the launch. My target glanced at it. I saw the horror on his face. Then he was staggering with his hands over his eyes as an explosion swept the well.

Somebody started to scream. An instant later there was a second, greater explosion as the fuel tanks went. The launch was engulfed in a sea of brilliant yellow flame. Ann broke from cover. "He's grenaded 'em!" We went racing around the head of the creek.

The Commodore was picking himself up from the floor of the cockpit as we scrambled aboard. "A nice stratagem, my dear," he cackled, staring in delight at the launch which, blazing furiously, was drifting slowly sideways away from Sabrina.

Ann glanced at him and said nothing. We watched the launch burning down to the waterline. I caught the stench of roasting flesh. No survivors and they hadn't used their radio.

"Now we must hasten," said the Commodore, rubbing his hands together. "When their launch had not returned by nightfall and does not answer their radio signals they will come searching for it."

Ann slid down into the cabin. "First—we get that turbine going."

She attacked the problem with originality. She exposed the impeller shaft just forward of the main gland and wound several fathoms of the mainsheet around it. Then she lashed a block to a holdfast in the cabin and ran the line up the companionway into the cockpit. "Tail onto that!" she ordered.

The old man and I sweated for an hour spuming the turbine with Ann readjusting various controls between attempts. Eventually, when the Commodore was finished and I was exhausted she hit the right combination. The turbine suddenly started and the rope disappeared down the companionway and into the engine compartment like a snake escaping down its hole. An instant later the engine stalled.

Ann surveyed the tangle around the shaft, cursed, and grabbed an axe.

"You can't cut that, Madam!" piped the Commodore from the hatch. "That's the mainsheet!"

"Can't I?" snarled Ann, swinging the axe.

After several minutes it was obvious she could not. "It's a chronon mainsheet, my dear," said the Commodore proudly.

We spent the next half-hour unwinding it from the shaft, but the few seconds of operation had done something odd to the turbine for it caught at our first attempt and this time the rope ran free. Ann juggled with the controls until it had settled down to an almost silent purr. She had completely forgotten the five dead men in the smoking launch only a few meters away.

Now it was the Commodore who would not let us rest. "The masts—the masts!" he shrilled. "We must take them down to the yard. The sheerlegs are still standing. We must step the masts. Quickly!"

"The masts? What the hell do we want with those things?" asked Ann, still playing with the engine. "The tanks are full and this little beauty will push us anywhere."

"Because there are no gas stations in mid-Atlantic," said the Commodore, now the most rational person aboard. "The fuel in the tanks will only last for six hundred nautical miles at most. The Atlantic crossing is over two thousand."

The masts were of veralloy, far slimmer and lighter than masts of more conventional material, but the mainmast was fifteen meters tall and it took our combined efforts to manhandle it from the shed to the boat. Eventually we got it and the mizzen lashed lengthways along the cluttered decks, sticking out over the bows like the lance of an armored knight. Then, with the Commodore at the wheel and Ann at the engine controls, I let go the mooring lines and we stood cautiously out into the river.

Chapter Eight
The Commodore at the wheel was a man transformed. His senility had come from a lack of purpose in his life as much as from a lack of blood to his brain. Our arrival had restored his reason for living and our good food had restored his physical strength. Ann said that the caffeine in our coffee had been a brain-chemistry catalyst. He steered the hull carefully down river and docked us under the rusting sheerlegs in the marine yard.

Ann started to argue when he set us to stepping the masts but his order stopped her in a way mine never could. With the turbine running we had power on the deck winches, but we were again exhausted by the time the two masts were stepped and stayed. After the job was done I made the Commodore turn in before he collapsed, and Ann and I transferred our cargo into Sabrina. After we had got the last bale aboard we collapsed too.

During breakfast the next morning we held a council of war. The Commodore and Ann both seemed to relish the promise of another encounter with our enemies, and my suggestion that we try to make a deal for safe passage with the Norfolk pirates was rejected out-of-hand. So was my other proposal: that we withdraw up the river to let their reaction to our sinking of their launch die down.

"We could do some business," I urged. "We might even work up as far as Richmond. Neither of you would be recognized there. And with a vessel like this—"

"I didn't bring Sabrina out of storage to traffic on the river!" said the Commodore. Ann looked at me and stated, "The only question is whether we try it in daylight or dark. I think we can bull our way through. This veralloy hull is bullet-proof. We can bounce off any snag. And there's enough power in the turbine to take it overland if we had wheels."

"I used to know Hampton Roads well," said the Commodore, "but those pirates may have rocket launchers on the banks. Young punks!"

"Young? Where do they come from?"

"There used to be a settlement on an island in the sound. It was overrun years ago. The goons captured the women—and they've bred. The vermin!" His hatred surfaced and he choked in a spasm of coughing. "I suggest we go down river after dark and run Hampton Roads at first light. Our danger is grounding within range of a launcher."

Moments later our decision was made for us by an outboard speeding up the river. It saw Sabrina and swerved toward the wharf. Ann seized her rifle, fired too soon, and missed. The outboard flicked around and roared back toward Norfolk. Ann stood cursing while the Commodore muttered, "That'll bring out the pack! We must get underway at once."

Ann's rashness had again forced us to act without adequate time to plan. We sweated through the morning making Sabrina seaworthy and when we finally got out on the river the Commodore became as impetuous as Ann. He increased our speed until he had us racing downstream under full throttle, veering among sandbanks and past wrecks.

Newport News was coming up to port as the day waned. Only then did he slow and send me up into the bows to lie on my stomach and call back warnings of the various objects that loomed in the waters ahead. We hit several. The mainmast behind me whipped under each shuddering impact, but nothing carried away and we bumped and blundered on past Newport News toward Norfolk with night coming down around us.

There were lights on both banks as we passed through the old urban complex. We grounded twice and each time our engine, revving faster as we backed off, roused goons ashore. Shots came at us out of the darkness and I crawled back to the cover of the cockpit. Ann was crouching on the locker, nursing her rifle, happily occupied in searching for targets.

She got one as the Commodore inched his way into what he thought was Hampton Roads. We heard the sound of a launch closing and suddenly a searchlight came probing at us. Ann shot it out with three quick bursts, and thereafter we were left alone for the rest of the night. After we had grounded for the fifth time the Commodore stopped the motor and we waited for the dawn.

The predawn showed us in the middle of the Roads. On each shore, black against the lightening sky, were silhouettes of the largest building I had ever seen. Ahead of us was the passage into the Chesapeake Bay. We started to move toward it.

The sun rose and the Commodore increased our speed. "That's Norfolk Navy Yard—over there! Where I worked to get the stuff to cocoon Sabrina." He stood gazing at the tall fingers of the derelict cranes until I feared he was back into his dream world and drew his attention to a power launch which had come racing toward us from the direction of Portsmouth.

"Crank her up, Commodore," I pleaded. I could see a machine gun mounted in its well.

The old man glanced at the launch, then at the opening to Chesapeake Bay some three kilometers ahead, and slowed the turbine, muttering, "They'll learn our speed when they like it least!"

"Right on!" said Ann, licking her lips and cocking her carbine.

I fished out my own rifle. This pair were hungry for another firelight and were determined to get it. We crouched together in the cockpit, the old man holding the lower spokes of the wheel. At intervals he peered over the coaming at the launch converging upon us.

"Mrs. Randolph," he said softly, "will you please take the throttle? Hold quarter speed until I say. Then give her full ahead!"

Ann seemed to be reading his mind. She put down her carbine and moved to the engine controls. I got ready to shoot, but it was the launch which started shooting first. The slugs swept our decks and ricocheted off the roof of the cabin. "You dumb grots!" whispered Ann.

The machine gun was hammering almost alongside before the Commodore snapped, "Stand by to ram!"

"Ready!" Ann was again licking her lips.

The Commodore raised himself for one quick glance, chuckled as a round whistled past his ear, and called, "Full ahead!" Then he spun the wheel hard over.

Above us Sabrina's topmasts arced across the sky as she heeled into her turn. The turbine rose to a scream as the throttle slammed open. The ketch gathered herself, like a horse coming at a jump. I felt her bows rise, her decks tilt, her whole hull rock as she went up and over. Something scraped the length of her keel. She shook herself, tossed her stern, steadied, and raced off at an angle across the Roads.

The Commodore had picked himself up, climbed onto the afterdeck, and was now literally dancing, shaking his fists and screaming, "Pirates—murderers—neofascists— apostates! Swim—damn you—swim!"

I had grabbed the deserted wheel and found myself steering a large boat for the first time in my life and heading toward Norfolk Naval Yard. I turned her smoothly so as not to catapult the old man overside, and pointed her bows toward Chesapeake Bay. Ann was looking astern at the cluster of swimming heads in our wake and reaching for her carbine. I yelled, "The engine! Get back on the throttle! Slow us down!"

She reached it just as we hit the swell of the bay and a torrent of water came over our foredeck. The Commodore recovered his senses and clambered into the cockpit beside me. "Hold her due east, my boy," he said, and disappeared down the companionway.

Ann, dripping, clutched the coaming, shocked into silence by her first encounter with salt water. She started to protest my being left in control, then sank slowly onto a locker, staring at the bay ahead. I was too busy trying to identify landmarks from my memory of the map and adjust my footing to Sabrina's new motion to pay her any attention. On our portside was Old Point Comfort. To starboard was the ragged skyline of Norfolk, stretching for kilometer after kilometer into the distance. I had little idea of the range of a rocket launcher so I stood well out from the Norfolk shore as we started across the bay. The remains of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel should be about twenty kilometers due east. Beyond them lay the Atlantic Ocean.

The speedometer showed five knots. I converted nautical miles to kilometers in my head and calculated we should reach the safety of the open ocean in about two and a half hours. Sabrina was moving easily through the light swell, with only an occasional burst of spray coming over her bows. I told Ann to speed up the turbine.

She hesitated. "David—?"

"Yes? "

"Maybe you were right! Perhaps we should wait a little before—"

She was interrupted by the Commodore emerging from the hatch, a chart in his hand. He glanced around, sniffed the salt like a hound dog scenting a deer, and opened the throttle himself. Then he came and stood beside me.

"Steady as she goes, my boy." He held up the folded chart. "We should pick up the tunnel piers in a while. When you do, slow till you're sure the channel's clear. Then take her out between them."

I didn't relish the responsibility of guiding Sabrina through whatever maritime litter lay in the channel. "Let me go and keep for'rd lookout, sir. You take the helm."

"Yes—for God's sake!" said Ann.

Sabrina's decks had been washed clean by the first deluge of salt water and they glistened in the rising sun. They were also slippery, but I reached the bows, falling only twice, and lay on the foredeck, staring into the morning mists ahead. The quality of the world was changing. Everything about me and under me was moving in new ways and making new noises. Yet none alarmed me. They were much as my books had described. I watched the skyline of Norfolk falling away to my right and felt that at last I was escaping from the shackles of age and decay that had held me for twenty-five years. The ocean, beckoning us, would be as it had always been, clear of broken things and aging people.

The Commodore opened the throttle further and I was soon drenched by the waves that started to break over our bows. I swallowed a mouthful of salt water and it tasted like the elixir of youth. Presently the outlines of the two tunnel towers came out of the clearing mist and I clambered to my feet, holding onto the forestay to peer at the broad channel between them. The Commodore slowed the turbine and we picked our way cautiously down its center. When they had dropped astern I raised my eyes and got my first clear view of the open Atlantic.

An expanse of tossing whitecaps, stretching away to the far horizon, stretching all the way to Europe and Africa.

Hues of green and blue, shifting colors I had never imagined. The loveliest sight I had ever seen despite years of riding through the loveliest of valleys and mountains. I went scrambling aft along the pitching decks, clutching at rails and shrouds, shouting, "Ann—Ann! There it is! There it is! We've made it! We've made it!" I threw my arms around her and held her to me.

She was trembling and when I released her she sat down slowly on a cockpit locker, staring ahead at the ocean. Her golden hair was splayed out by the wind and glistened in the sunshine. Her red lips were parted from her clenched teeth. Her cheeks were pink, and wet with spray. My sweater was taut over her breasts. She sat as though hypnotized by the prospect before her. I had never before seen her look so beautiful. And I had never before seen her look scared.

I tried to reassure her, to remind her of what we had accomplished of the thousands of nautical miles of freedom that lay ahead, of the Mediterranean that lay beyond. But there was no way I could reach her. She remained rigid and silent, clutching the coaming. I went to relieve the Commodore at the wheel.

He began to teach me how to hold a course, the way the helm should be moved to anticipate the movements of the sea, how to keep the compass pointing due east I seemed to have a natural talent for sensing Sabrina's characteristics and was steering quite competently when Ann suddenly rose and flung herself across the cockpit.

For an instant I thought her nerve had failed, and that she was about to jump overboard. I left the wheel and grabbed her. She vomited over me, then fell across the lee coaming, retching into the scuppers. All that remained visible of Ann was the tight seat of her jeans and her slim legs. Her bottom twitched spasmodically as she threw up.

"We'd better get some sail on," said the Commodore, "She'll roll less and save fuel. The wind's fair for an offshore reach."

"What canvas do you suggest, sir?"

He studied the sea, then he looked at me. "Under the circumstances, only the small jenny. If I remember rightly you'll find it in the for'rd sail locker. A blue sail bag, I think. I'll keep the wheel while Mrs. Randolph is indisposed."

I had trouble finding the for'rd sail locker, and more trouble identifying the blue sail bag. Although Sabrina had been sealed during her years in storage, dust had filtered in from somewhere, and dragging out one colored bag after another I was enveloped in a choking cloud. The job was made more difficult as her movements became more violent the farther we got from the coast, and the atmosphere in the locker more stifling. I came back to the cockpit for air, and fell across the coaming beside Ann.

After I had emptied my stomach I straightened up, wiping my mouth, cold sweat and spray on my face, surprised to find most of my nausea gone. I smiled weakly at the Commodore.

He smiled gently back. "Don't be embarrassed, my boy. Many great sailors were always sick during their first few hours in a seaway. But you had better look after your wife. She'll get chilled if she stays hanging half overside."

I put my arm around Ann's shoulders. "Come on, honey. Let's get you below!"

She was limp and unprotesting as I pulled her back into the cockpit and helped her down the companionway to the saloon. I arranged her on one of the bunks. She moaned, grabbed my hand, and mumbled that she was going to throw up. I found a plastic bucket and lodged it by her head. She curled into immobile misery. The atmosphere of the saloon was thickening, so I quickly went back to the air.

"Now hoist the jenny," urged the Commodore.

I tumbled the genoa jib out of its bag, and attempted to get it bent on. After some ten minutes I had made it obvious that I could not tell one part of the sail from another. I knew the correct names for what should be there and where the lines should be attached, but I could find nothing that agreed with the names, nor relate the terms I knew to either the bundle of dacron or the mix of halyards coming down the mast. After I had almost sent what I later found to be the jib halyard up to the masthead by unwittingly pulling on the wrong line the Commodore shouted, "Go and ask your wife to take the wheel. I'll give you a hand."

I shook Ann. She assumed we were being attacked and tried to get to her feet. When she discovered I wanted her on deck so we could set sail she whispered, "You're crazy.

Put a sail on this thing while the turbine's working?" She fell back onto the bunk, curling into a fetal position with her face to the bulkhead and her stern toward me.

I slapped it. "Get on deck, Ann. We need you!"

Either the slap or the knowledge that she was needed brought her crawling up the companion way. I took her shoulders and pushed her into the helmsman's seat. The Commodore placed her hands on the wheel.

"You'll feel better when we've got some steadying sail up, Mrs. Randolph," he assured her. "Keep the bows pointing into the wind and the throttle almost closed while we're hoisting the jenny."

Ann looked at him wildly, vomited, but seemed to understand. The old man came with me along the plunging decks and explained which rope was which and what was fastened to where. Eventually we got the jenny bent on and winched up, its peak fluttering against the mast and the rest of it thundering across the foredeck, wrapping itself around stays and shrouds. I dodged the unpredictable blows from the shackles as I crawled back to the cockpit The Commodore followed, stiffly and slowly.

He took the wheel from Ann and pointed to the jib winch. I slid across the cockpit to haul in the sheet and as I did so the wild floggings of the genoa died away, much as when I had checked my gray from tossing his head by pressure on the curb. The Commodore turned Sabrina's bows off the wind and the sail began to fill.

Suddenly the jenny was curving, taut, powerful, and silent Sabrina was heeling as she picked up way. The Commodore cut the turbine and Sabrina came alive beneath us. He and I shared a moment of utter delight.

Ann gave the suspicion of a whimper. She was staring at the water foaming past centimeters below our lee rail as we heeled under the wind.

"Best take your wife below again," suggested the Commodore. "Has she ever seen the ocean before?"

"No," I said. "And neither have I."

Chapter Nine
We sailed eastward and the Commodore started to teach me how a twenty-meter ketch differed from a five-meter sloop. We had a beam wind which eased to a light breeze during the afternoon and when he was satisfied I could hold a course he stretched out on the cushions in the cockpit and left me to sail Sabrina toward Europe.

I experienced for the first time the joy of handling a large sailboat. The quivers of her wheel were like the little movements a woman makes when she starts to respond. The curve of the Genoa jib was the full curve of a perfect breast, thrusting out, carrying us magically on toward the east as the sun behind us dropped down over America. The breeze stayed light and the sea calm. The Commodore woke at dusk and sat beside me showing me how to meet shifts in the wind, chewing biscuits, and telling me about Sabrina. Around midnight he took over the helm and sent me below to sleep.

Ann was still semiconscious, and I slept soundly on the other berth in the saloon. He woke me at dawn, refreshed and ravenous, so the first thing I did was fix breakfast, I served ham, eggs, bread, butter, and coffee. Ann retched at the suggestion of food, so the Commodore and I ate together in the cockpit under a blue sky and white sails, surrounded by a shifting, sparkling sea. I had never enjoyed a meal more.

It was restful to have Ann immobilized for a while. The Commodore said that a girl with her spunk would soon find her sea legs, but she remained inert and out of communication. By evening she had stopped vomiting but I was afraid she would start to dehydrate so I roused her and made her drink a mug of hot soup. She had recovered sufficiently to object, but I got most of it down her and she did not bring it back. She did, however, refuse to come on deck. Finally, I let her retain the security of her bunk, stretched out beside her, and without intending to, fell asleep.

When I woke and returned to the cockpit it was again night. We were ghosting across a flat sea with a new moon and a few splendid stars. The Commodore had lashed the helm and trimmed the sails so that Sabrina was sailing herself and he was slumped asleep by the wheel. I did not wake him but walked forward into the bows and stood holding onto the forestay, staring into the darkness. Sabrina moved in glory, her stem whispering sweetly through a sea splashed with phosphorescence from the wave spreading outward from her stem. She made soft murmuring noises, and above me the sails curved white in the moonlight. It was a vision about which I had read many times, described over and over again by sailors of the past, and I tried to absorb the immensity of it. Then I remembered that we were probably the only vessel out on the vastness of that empty ocean, and I went aft for the Commodore's company.

I woke him with a mug of coffee. After a few moments of mental meandering the caffeine took effect and be began to instruct me in the basics of navigation. "I supplied Sabrina with a library on microdot. You've got electricity now, so you can use the reader. There's all fifty volumes of the encyclopedia. Read the articles on sailing. I stored the best books about navigation and seamanship on microdot too. Also the Pilots. There are charts for the Atlantic and the Mediterranean in the drawers under the chart table, and the last set of Sailing Directions and Notices to Mariners they ever published. I threw in a sextant and a solid-state chronometer. Don't know how to use the sextant myself. Like everybody else in my day I depended on the Navsats." He squinted up at the stars. "Wonder if they're still up there? Transmitting away to nobody!"

"Ann said they'd go on working for another two hundred years." I was not anxious to dwell on our isolation. "If you've got the books I'll be able to teach myself how to use the sextant." He glanced at me, and I added, "I know how to get a latitude from the sun. I read somewhere that all the navigation you need in the Atlantic is to remember that the sun rises in the East and sets in the West. If we sail toward the sunrise we'll reach Europe or Africa, sooner or later!"

He grunted. "True enough—if you don't care where you hit! And if you can see the sunrise. When the weather closes in you can get pretty confused, young fella. So mark off your daily run properly on the chart every noon. I reckon you'll have to sail on dead reckoning."

"But, sir—you're the navigator!"

He continued as though I had not spoken. "Hold to the southerly route. Don't go north or you'll lose the sun and your bearings. Better not try to find the Azores. Make it in one jump. You've got water and supplies aboard for six months at sea." He rose stiffly and went below leaving me in complete command.

It gusted up during the night. I lost the moon and the stars. The wind shifted to the northeast and began to come in short squalls, heeling Sabrina over and blowing spray across our decks. Darkness, rain flurries, and the breaking sea changed my exhilaration into alarm. Instead of a docile, soft-stepping mare, Sabrina seemed a half-broken mustang with a tendency to buck and sudden attempts to roll over. After the lee rail went under for the first time I yelled for the Commodore but got no response, and as I did not dare to leave the wheel to shake him awake I had to cope with Sabrina and the sea myself.

By dawn I had learned. I had also learned that she was not a vicious man-killer but a spirited saddlebred, sensitive to my hands, who responded with instant obedience to my clumsy movements. I learned something of the art of balancing her, leaning against the wind, as she raced through the waves. I learned how to ease the sheets as the wind increased, how to spill air from the sails when she heeled too far, how to keep her heading eastward against shifts of wind and sea. In short I learned that her basic behavior was the same as that of my father's small sloop, but immensely amplified by the tremendous power from her great sails. I let the Commodore sleep on as I watched the sun rise red across a steel-gray waste of tossing waves.

By the time he did wake and come staggering on deck the sun was up, the wind had dropped, and the sky was again blue. After he had partly recovered his senses I gave him the wheel and went to make coffee. Revived, the first thing he showed me was how to back the jib and lash the helm so that Sahrina would heave-to; lie hobbled without anyone at the wheel. After a second mug of coffee he showed me how to trim the sails and adjust the lashed helm so she would hold her course when on a reach. He warned me that it would take a lot longer than a few hours to learn that skill.

Ann returned to partial life, her nerve restored but her disposition unimproved. During the next two days she began to help me to sort and secure the multitude of items that needed sorting and securing. Her recurrent bouts of nausea made her even more irritable than usual. At first she showed her exasperation by her attitude rather than her words. She finally exploded while we were in the fore-peak identifying the various anchors and stowing them so they would be secure for the crossing but retrievable when we arrived.

"David—you're a goddamn phony! You know the names of things. But you don't know what the hell the things are!" She straightened, hit her head on a beam, cursed, and continued, "Why do you have to snow yourself and me with your fancy words?"

"Correct nomenclature is the first step to understanding anything." The forepeak was stifling, Sabrina was plunging, and I had had to do all the heavy physical labor since we had left Norfolk. "Anyway—you're always firing off jargon!"

"I only use a term when I know what it means. You toss technical words around—" Sabrina heaved and Ann fell into my arms. I clutched her, and she pushed me off, snarling, "Thank God the Commodore knows what we're doing out here!"

"I've been learning. I haven't been lying around puking!" Ann suddenly looked as though she was about to vomit again. "Shape up and stop bitching! Or are you still too shot to work?"

She probably was, but not sick enough to admit it. We had light winds and calm during the next twenty-four hours as we edged our way across the Gulf Stream and the respite allowed her willpower to force her recovery. She began to eat and find her way about the ship. She also started to grumble about the Commodore's idiocy at giving away his radio.

On our fifth night at sea the Commodore died. He died silently, without fuss or warning. When I came on deck soon after dawn I found him collapsed on a locker. The wheel was lashed and the sails trimmed. Sabrina was still moving on the course her owner had set her.

"Exhausted!" said Ann, stepping back from the frail corpse. "He died hours ago. No reserves. Too old!"

"He must have felt his end coming. The last thing he did was to look after his ship." I studied the dead face. "He died happy!"

"Nobody dies happy!" Ann was biting her lip. "Some just fight harder than others. He was a real fighter." She bent and kissed his forehead, then grasped his bony shoulders. "Help me get him overside."

I caught her arm. "We'll bury him properly. He was the Commodore. He liked things done right. He'd want a decent burial."

She watched silently as I wrapped the body in what I thought was an awning, and found a length of spare anchor chain for his feet When I sat down to sew him up she protested, "Whether he floats or goes straight down— something's going to eat him. Sooner or later. What difference will it make to him?"

"It makes a difference to me!" On some things I was as strong-minded as Ann. "Go and find a flag!"

She went rooting through the lockers and presently returned with an American ensign. When I spread it over the Commodore's shrouded body she objected. "You're not going to waste that too?"

"It's his! The whole ship is his!"

"Not any more. We were his partners. So now we're his heirs."

I looked up at her. "Then, as you see it, we've made quite a capital gain?"

She avoided my eyes and muttered, "I'm a realist!"

She was a materialist and as avaricious as the Elders she claimed to despise, so I only said, "Pull the flag away as I slide him overboard. I've seen pictures of them doing it."

I remembered few other details about the proper procedure for burying a shipmate at sea. I knew that we should heave-to and that the Commodore should be slid, feet-first, off a grating. But we did not have a grating, and the only words I could remember were: We therefore commit this body to the Deep.

So I backed the jib, trimmed the mainsail, and lashed the helm in the way the Commodore had taught me. When Sabrina lay quiet, dipping her nose into the swell, we lifted him onto the after deck, I added some appropriate phrases to the invocation, and pushed him over the stern. I stood at attention while Ann grabbed the ensign. He hit the water feet-first and went straight down. According to the charts the bottom was three kilometers beneath us.

I took the flag from Ann, bent it onto the ensign halyard, and hoisted it two-thirds up the mizzen backstay, to the approximate position of the end of the gaff, if Sabrina had had a gaff. Then, as a signal that the owner had died that day, I lowered it to half-mast. I turned to explain these points of flag etiquette to Ann.

She was staring not aloft at our flag but astern at our wake. There were tears running down her cheeks. It was the first and only time I have ever seen tears flooding out of the eyes of a healthy young woman who was not obviously crying. When she realized I was gaping at her she plunged down the companionway into the saloon.

Left alone on deck with the whole ship to look after, I brought the jib across, unlashed the wheel, slackened off the mainsheet, and returned Sabrina to her course. The ensign streamed out bravely, and as I looked up at it I wondered if we were the only ship at sea flying Old Glory. Then I realized I was now in command of this one. A moment later I was pleased to feel a surge of pride rather than a deluge of fear.

About a half-hour later Ann came slowly back on deck, and started to apologize for having bolted below.

"I suppose you've been calculating our new gross worth," I commented. "Including imponderables we must approximate to millionaires. And half of it yours. Not bad for a girl thrown out of her settlement with nothing but a knife to her name!"

"Two knives!" she spat. Then her eyes began to overflow again.

"For God's sake, Ann," I said, "don't do that! You're not supposed to act like that! Oh Hell! Go and make coffee. Just one mug. Black—no sugar."

She hesitated, then disappeared down to the galley. When she came back with it I had her hold one side of the mug, I held the other, and together we poured it overside as a libation to the Commodore.

Chapter Ten
The Atlantic gave me time to adjust to my new command before testing me. During the next five days we had winds varying from light airs to a fresh southeasterly, and with seas ranging from mild to moderate. My confidence in myself and my ship increased as I learned how to handle her in the easy weather. Names became things, and most worked as the Commodore had told me they would.

On the eleventh morning out of Norfolk the barometer started to fall slowly, and several hours later the wind began to rise. By evening it had reached what I estimated to be a fresh gale, and Ann regarded as a hurricane. The books agreed that the best way for a yacht like Sabrina to weather a gale in the open ocean is to take in all sail, lash the helm, batten down, go below, and wait it out So that is what we did.

I now realize that what I had judged to be a fresh gale was little more than a strong southwesterly with a beam sea, the kind of wind that Sabrina would have relished in her ocean-racing days, and in which any racing skipper would have used all the sail he could carry. But my misjudgment was our good fortune. The wind moderated during the night, and after we had spent it rigid on our bunks waiting for something to happen, we went on deck in the morning to find only a gentle breeze and a heavy swell.

However the barometer was still edging down, and the swell worried Ann. I decided we would eat before we made sail, and during breakfast the wind began to build up again. It continued to increase all through that day, with the clouds coming low, spattering patches of rain white on the dark long waves. By nightfall the waves themselves were breaking into foam-capped mountains, and the spume torn from their crests was driving horizontally across our decks.

The gale we had feared had become real, but because of my earlier caution we were already secured to meet it. I retreated to the saloon where I joined Ann in listening to the rising scream of the wind and the thunder of waves on the decks above.

The combers began to break over us in a regular rhythm. Sabrina staggered under the successive blows from kilos of water and gusting squalls. The saloon light went out, and as neither of us volunteered to search for the break we lay on our bunks in almost complete darkness.

Presently I thought I heard Ann call my name. I clawed my way across the saloon and climbed in beside her, wedging her between the bulkhead and myself. By jamming my back against the bunk-board I was able to hold us both in the bunk against the wild rolling. She seemed as terrified as I, and during the next few hours I was so occupied in trying to comfort her that I forgot much of my own fear. The pandemonium around us prevented speech, so I had to communicate in the language of touch. By stroking and patting her in any place I could reach I distracted myself and calmed her down. Finally she fell asleep, her hands clutching my neck and her head against my chest.

As the first light of morning filtered through the skylight Sabrina's movements became less violent and more regular. Fewer seas crashed onto the deck above us. Ann came half awake and snuggled closer to me. As I awakened so did my ardor. I began to experiment, more to take my mind off the storm than with any real hope of success.

But she began to stir under my hands, and presently I felt her own seeking fingers. I kissed her gently, her lashes quivered, and I glimpsed the great pupils of her gray eyes. I kissed her mouth a little more firmly, and her lips parted. I felt her nipples harden against my chest. I eased up the tail of her shirt and ran my hand down the small of her back; she began to shiver when I stroked her taut buttocks. She shifted her body, drawing me to her, breathing faster, each roll of Sabrina pressing us against each other. These successive nudges from our ship urged us toward love.

Many yachtsmen must have discovered the unique delight of making love in a rolling sailboat. Perhaps that is why sailing became such a popular pastime during the Affluence. The combination of ascending ship and a shifting partner produces a composite of sliding movements, a variety of bodily contacts, beyond anything achievable on a stable bed. Sabrina lifted and dropped as the waves swept under her. Ann and I moved with her and with each other. Usually I have no taste for triple-sex, but on that early morning Sabrina completed the perfect team.

She would hang for a moment on the crest of a wave, and I would hang with her. She would rush plunging down into the trough, and the spume foamed about her bows and my body. The two of them would lift beneath me, sometimes separately, sometimes Ann and Sabrina together. Sometimes a savage gust from the dying gale shook all three of us. Sometimes Ann and I unaided seemed to shake our ship.

Later, when I wearied, it was the thrust of Sabrina under me, the power of the ocean transferred up through her smooth hull, up through me, up into Ann. Then, as the seas quieted and we moved more gently, we slid into sleep.

When I awoke the scream of the winds and the crash of the seas had subsided, and Sabrina was lurching from beam end to beam end. Ann was still asleep, each roll pushing her relaxed body first against me, and then against the bulkhead. From above came a cacophony; the rattle of blocks, the clatter of gear, the slatterning of loose lines against masts. Around us, below decks, everything which had broken loose during the gale was crashing to and fro across lockers, compartments, and drawers.

I eased out of the bunk, pulled on storm gear, and scrambled up the companionway to the cockpit. All around was a tossing tumult of whitecaps. Without the thrust of the wind on her naked spars to hold her heeled Sabrina was wallowing, rolling from side to side, dipping each rail in turn.

The strains on the rigging were tremendous as the masts whipped across the sky. I did not need my books to tell me that, veralloy or not, I must get a steadying sail on Sabrina before her mainmast went overside. After much searching and labor I found and bent on the storm staysail. I think I got it the right way up. As it filled Sabrina steadied and then surged forward with renewed purpose much as my gray had once moved to the order from my hands and knees. I brought her bows around until she was again heading due east and watched her speed build up to seven knots.

The wind had eased and our speed had fallen back to five when Ann came on deck. She stood looking dreamily at the wild ocean, her golden hair spreading on the wind. I called her to the helm, and she smiled at me as she took the wheel. I went below to fix breakfast.

The best I could manage in that seaway was a mess of hot sweet oatmeal, and I offered Ann a mugfull. She waved it away but she smiled as she refused and I went to sit on a locker at the for'rd end of the cockpit to eat my own oatmeal and enjoy the sunrise beauty in Ann's face as she guided Sabrina through the dying storm. She would glance from the compass to the sails to the sea, already following the classic pattern of helmsmen, but at intervals she would also glance at me, and when our eyes met she did not respond with her usual frown. I finished my oatmeal and moved along the lockers to sit beside her. The wind had dropped sufficiently for us to be able to talk without shouting.

"Ann—last night! It was a mystical experience! You must have felt it. As though Sabrina was carrying us in her arms!"

She laughed aloud. "The only arms I felt had hands on ‘em. Yours! They were all over the place. I was too scared to notice when Sabrina joined the action!"

"But you're not scared any more, are you?"

"No." She considered. "At least, not much."

"And you're not seasick either?"

"No," she admitted.

"You see!" I said triumphantly. "A change—a conversion! That's the essence of the mystical experience. We've both undergone a sea-change. Don't you feel it?"

"David—you're either crazy or kinky!"

But her tone was kind and her glance warm. Our night of terror, storm, and love had bound us closer to each other than I had thought possible. I tried to tell her so, and suggested I put out the sea-anchor and let Sabrina lie-to while we returned to the saloon and strengthened our new unity.

Her tone stayed kind but became firm. "No, David! No more sex while we're at sea."

"Ann—it's not sex! It's love!"

"Whatever you call it, it's too dangerous. Last night this tub could have rolled over and I'd have drowned not knowing we were submerged." She overcorrected for a following wave and Sabrina started to yaw. "See what I mean? Even the memory fraps me!" She reached out and ran her fingers through my wet hair. Sabrina attempted another broach, as though demanding the full attention of her helmsman. "David, I think you're right. This scow is acting jealous!" She laughed into the wind.

"Ann—I wasn't being literal!" Her amusement irritated me.

She held Sabrina sliding smoothly down the slope of a particularly large wave. "Survival, David! That's the basic drive in both of us. And we're both good at it. There'll be time for sex when we're not liable to be shot or sunk."

That promise cheered me as I went for'rd to set the storm jib. Ann held Sabrina steady on the wind through the welter of breaking seas, and later she rigged two lengths of floating line for me to grab if I went overside without my harness snapped on; her first sign of concern for my welfare since we had sailed.

Somewhere I have read that the western ocean was the nursery of sailors. We were crossing the southerly and more permissive part of that nursery, but the passage transformed us from landsmen into apprentice seamen. Sabrina and the Atlantic were our teachers and we could not have had better. She was a magnificent sea-boat, designed to be handled by a small crew and she offset the ignorance of the two novices who manned her. Later I realized that, in the open ocean, we could only have been sunk through our own negligence, and both of us were compulsive survivors. We looked after our gear—guns, horses, or boats. If life had taught us nothing else it had taught us that was the only way to stay alive.

The mood of the Atlantic during our crossing also followed the pedagogical ideal. Stern but not severe, power that awed but did not terrorize, testing us only within our limits of tolerance. Reminding us occasionally of the ultimate punishment that waits for the careless, lazy, or inept. Rewarding us with glimpses of joy and beauty. We got a cram course in seamanship; we covered four years work in four weeks.

But we did not, as I had hoped, grow closer together. Ann still had many built-in constraints which it would take more than one night to break down. Both of us had grown up in grossly abnormal societies. We had both been endowed by our fathers with values quite different from those around us, and then orphaned in adolescence, we had been deserted when we were just old enough to survive the stresses placed upon us but still too malleable to withstand them without being distorted. I classified the both of us as emotional and moral cripples, who had been forced to develop aberrant behavior patterns to cope with our hostile environments.

I had no more success in getting through to her mind than I had in re-reaching her body. During our long tack eastward I tried to introduce her to the humanist ideal, but she had been immersed in empiricism to the point of developing a contempt for all cultural abstractions. When I talked of civilization she talked of action. And, like most women, she argued ad hominem.

"David—you keep trying to edge back into an intellectual dream-world. I've read some of those books you talk about. Culture—my God! They were half dead! Especially the women. You and I—we've had it tough. But we've been all-out alive."

"And left a trail of dead behind us."

"But not one innocent!" She rounded on me. "Dad taught me who to shoot as well as how."

Her father had taught her many skills, mostly lethal. I wished he had lived long enough to have taught her some manners; that is, a consideration for the feelings of others. And I am sure he had not encouraged the kind of language she used when roused. "If your father had smoothed some of your rough edges—"

She cut me off. She interpreted as criticism any mention I made of her father. Ann had never learned how to combine tact with truth. She was an infuriating shipmate, as she must have been an infuriating member of the Sherando Settlement. Because of her technical abilities the Elders would have had to include her in the planning of some projects. I pictured her, waiting until they had agreed on a course of action, and then pointing out succtinctly in her specialist jargon why their proposals were impossible. The Council of Sherando might be missing her technical advice but not her presence.

We had Sabrina and the sea to teach us. We also had books, my own and the Commodore's collection. The fifty-volume encyclopedia was a useful reference for almost everything. My father, of course, had had a printed set of the last edition and, as a boy, I had read the more interesting parts. But, when the weather improved, Ann spent much of her free time at the electroreader trying to consume the whole in a series of gulps. She had hardly realized such a compendium of knowledge existed. The Elders had controlled the library in Sherando as they had controlled everything else, and the women had not even been encouraged to learn to read, let alone have access to what books the library contained. Ann's own reading had been irregular because most of it had been illegal. Ignorance is the strongest fetter that tyrants can use to shackle their subjects.

I mentioned this thought to Ann one hot afternoon when Sabrina was ghosting along and she was lying in the sunshine wearing very little and, for once, reading a printed book. She was irritated by my interruption, and when irritated she tended to revert to her earlier brusqueness. "David, you produce specious aphorisms like a horse produces manure! Men are ignorant because they refuse to see the obvious. When we get civilization going again it won't be the zoftig culture you yearn after!"

She did not say who "we" were, nor the kind of civilization she wanted to get going, nor how she was proposing to aid its establishment. She dealt out pronouncements, not explanations. And her pronouncements became increasingly terse as we sailed along the Great Circle toward Europe.

After we had passed the fortieth meridian and were somewhere south of the Azores we ran into a period of calms and light airs so our progress was slow. The fresh food was exhausted and fishing was less productive than I had hoped. We had ample dried rations and fresh water, but meals became dull, and we tended to lie around in the sun with Ann slugging her way through the encyclopedia. When I tried to get her talking we drifted back into the bickering which had marked our ride along the river road to Richmond.

But when she grew lazy as well as bad-tempered I became concerned, for sloth was not among Ann's vices. On the noon that I calculated we were about three hundred nautical miles off the coast of Spain I found her rubbing her jaw, and she admitted that her teeth were starting to ache. I made her let me look in her mouth, and even with my meager medical knowledge I could make a confident diagnosis. "Ann—you're getting scurvy."

"Crap! Scurvy went out with the Ark! And I'm eating the same food as you are."

"Different people need different amounts of ascorbic acid."

"When I want a medical consultation with an itinerant pill-peddler I'll ask for it."

"There!" I said triumphantly. "That confirms the diagnosis!"

"What the hell do you mean?"

I fetched the Shipmaster's Medical Guide, and read, "Early signs of adult scurvy include painful gums, lassitude, depression—and petulant irritability."

She grabbed the book and studied the description of the disease. "It doesn't say anything here about the irritability being petulant!" She touched her jaw and winced. "Okay—so it fits. I'll start on some of those multivits you were hawking in the valley."

"I'm not sure they're still potent. What we need are oranges, limes, tomatoes. And we've got to get them soon."

Chapter Eleven
At dawn two days later we sighted land. Ann was at the wheel and I came down the mast, shouting, "We've made it—we're across—dead ahead! That's it! I kissed her.

"Careful, Buster!" She rubbed her mouth with one hand while steering with the other. "That's what?"

"Europe—or Africa!"

"Make up your mind. Which?"

After arguing over the charts for a while we decided it must be Spain. By noon we had identified Cape Saint Vincent. Gibraltar was about two hundred miles to the southeast. I hadn't made a bad landfall for a novice navigator on his first open ocean crossing.

The prevailing westerlies took us across the Gulf of Cadiz, we rounded Cape Trafalgar with a fair wind and saw our first sail of the voyage, hull-down in the direction of Africa. At sunset, two days after first sighting Europe, we hove-to in the Straits of Gibraltar and watched lights beginning to twinkle on the lower flanks of the great lion-shaped rock.

"There's still a town there," I said. "And they'll have lemons and oranges. Tomorrow, we'll go in and trade."

Ann started to argue that my multivits were working, that we shouldn't take the risk. But I was firm. "You're getting lazier and worse-tempered by the hour. According to the books your gums will soon start bleeding, then your joints, and after that everything else. Unless we get you some ascorbic acid you'll be a mess by the time we reach Lyre."

The next morning, with the chance of action imminent, she recovered some of her energy and after we had got under way she went down into the saloon. She returned to the cockpit wearing her beard.

"Not me," I protested. "I've lost mine."

"Okay, David. You do it your way. I'm back into old age until we learn the score. Whoever's there—don't let 'em know about the turbine." She secured the cover over the instrument panel as I tacked into Algeciras Bay. Gibraltar loomed huge to starboard.

A flock of small sailing boats emerged suddenly from the morning mist and scattered on sighting us. "That must be the fishing fleet," I said, steering for the two moles which marked the southern entrance to Gibraltar harbor.

"And they're scared of strangers!" Ann strapped on her gun belt and pulled a waterproof poncho over her head to hide both her revolver and her figure.

We had taken in all sail except the working jenny, and as we approached the moles I studied the harbor and the town beyond. "There are people ashore," I reported, lowering my glasses. "And masts alongside the wharves."

Ann was checking the firearms and hiding them about the cabin. As we sailed slowly between the moles she went for'rd, a stooped and trembling old man. Apart from four small sailing ships and an old tugboat tied up below the town the broad harbor and the great dockyards seemed empty and derelict. I looked for a mooring where we could trade safely and leave fast.

"Here comes the welcome committee!" Ann called.

An eight-oared cutter was pulling toward us, and a man standing in the bows was gesticulating toward a rusty buoy about four hundred meters from the wharf. I put Sabrina's head to the wind, we glided up to it, Ann reached down with the boathook and slid our line through the eye. We did it by the book and we did it well, considering that neither of us had ever moored a boat to a buoy before. Then we dropped the jenny and prepared to receive visitors.

"I've given her plenty of scope!" muttered Ann through her beard. She was becoming precise in her maritime terminology. "And there's an axe by the mast."

The man in the bows of the cutter was small and wizened, wearing a faded khaki uniform and a peaked cap. The oarsmen were younger and sturdier and had rifles lying along the thwarts. They stared at Sabrina while their commander shouted at us in Spanish.

"America—America!" I called back.

His mouth dropped open, then he screeched at his crew. The cutter ran up our starboard side, a couple of men scrambled aboard with their rifles, and the cutter shoved off, its commander shouting what I took to be an order to stay where we were while he fetched somebody who would know what to do.

The pair who had come aboard stood fingering their rifles and gazing around. I tried to transmit my delight at having arrived safely in their magnificent harbor. Ann, stooped and muttering, produced a bottle of bourbon and gave each of them a tot with a gloved and trembling hand.

They hesitated only a moment, and after I had pressed cheroots upon them they began to laugh and clap our shoulders, expressing their own pleasure at our arrival. Ann started to question them, using her excellent imitation of the piping voice of a crotchety old man and a smattering of multilingual phrases she must have picked up as a radio operator.

An armed boarding party did not suggest a free port. My immediate inclination was to jump the two guards while we could and get the hell out of it. But when I hinted this to Ann she hushed me with an irritable gesture.

"They think I'm your father," she snapped in a tone my own father had sometimes used. "The guy who runs this place claims to be the Spanish governor. These birds call themselves the Guarda-Costa. String along. Let's get fruit before we bolt."

She made the guards understand that we needed oranges and gave them more bourbon. They solved our problem in a way that demonstrated one of the local government's techniques. Several small rowboats had paddled toward us. Our guards hailed the nearest, and emphasized their order with a shot across its bows. When it came alongside they exchanged shouts with the rower.

I tossed him some tobacco, the controversy instantly ceased, and he sculled away toward the shore. Within minutes we had five rowboats clustered around us and in the subsequent trading I obtained oranges, grapes, and apricots on excellent terms.

"Now we've got what we came for let's go!" I whispered to Ann, as we sat stuffing ourselves with ascorbic acid and the guards drank their second whiskey.

"Let's see what else we can get." Ann was reviving on excitement and oranges, "Maybe there's more. Here comes the top cop!"

The cutter was pulling back toward us, this time under the command of a younger man with a black beard, a newer uniform, and an automatic pistol. The guards hastily finished their drinks, hid their glasses, and picked up their rifles. "They say this bunch of fuzz is the Port Captain," muttered Ann. "Now David, don't fragment at the sight of a beard and a uniform!"

I greeted the fellow when he came aboard. His response was effusive and in fair English, but he stood on the deck looking around with what my trader's eye told me was avarice rather than hospitality.

"His Excellency the Governor—he has heard of your arrival. He wants to see you both. Pronto!" He gestured us toward his cutter.

Ann made herself appear very old, very weary, and very bad-tempered. He had been awake for two days, his teeth were hurting, he was damned if he was going anywhere until he'd had some sleep. The boy, meaning me, would go and pay our joint respects to His Excellency. She did not wait to argue but climbed stiffly down the companionway and crawled onto her bunk. She lay with her face to the bulkhead, and when I bent solicitously over her, she mumbled, "Go and talk to their governor. Case the setup. I'll look after things here."

Instant judgments in complex situations were Ann's forte, and this retreat to her bunk forced me to fall in with whatever plan she had in mind. I was beginning to suspect that she might welcome these crises for the chances they gave her to show her skill in getting out of them. Or perhaps she had some type of death-wish—

"Your father—is he sick?" inquired the Port Captain from the top of the companionway.

"My father has scurvy, senor," I explained as I rejoined him on deck. "The oranges will cure that when they have had time to work. But he is also old and exhausted. Perhaps his Excellency will understand if I request that my father be allowed to postpone the pleasure and honor of calling upon—"

The Port Captain waved me to a halt. I managed to add, "And I, in fact, am the captain of this ship."

He looked at me, shrugged, and gestured toward the cutter. As we pulled away toward the shore he shouted at the two guards what I guessed to be an order to stay out of the booze.

It was a hot September morning, and as we rowed across the waters of the great harbor I stared in obvious awe at the majestic and ancient fortress before me. I asked the Port Captain about various landmarks I had culled from the encyclopedia, and by the time we arrived alongside the jetty he was pointing out the sights of Gibraltar to me with increasing enthusiasm. Everybody likes to talk about their home town.

I climbed the worn stairs to the wharf, remarking as I did that these were my first steps on European soil. The ground tilted sharply as I reached the top and I slumped to my knees, the effect of five weeks of constant motion on my organs of balance. As I was surrounded by an interested crowd I crossed myself to cover my embarrassment.

The Catholic Church had evidently survived in Gibraltar for many of the crowd also crossed themselves and I saw nods of approval that the first thought of this devout sailor from America on reaching land should be to thank God. I took several minutes over my devotions until the land stabilized and several of my escort joined me on their knees before the Port Captain helped me to my feet.

We started slowly up through the bastions into the town, As we walked the Port Captain gave an historical commentary on the buildings we passed, some of it accurate, and my interest was not assumed. I was fascinated by the frozen history all around me. This was Gibraltar, the Pillar of Hercules, the greatest of fortresses, the key to the Mediterranean. We climbed assault steps cut by the Spaniards, through gun emplacements built by the British, past a wall raised by the Romans, under an archway made by the Moors. A series of fortifications representing the changing phases of European civilization.

When we reached the narrow streets of the town I tried to concentrate on the present rather than the past. I could not decide whether the buildings were actually falling to pieces or whether they had always looked as if they were. But the people crowding around us were friendly; many of the older men pressed forward to shake my hand despite the expostulations of my escort, and the subsequent arguments did not suggest a population overawed by its military. I arrived at Government House still uncertain as to whether we had sailed into a tyranny or a charade.

The Port Captain had told me that His Excellency was Governor of Seville and the Islands as well as of Gibraltar. The fact that he chose to make this ruined fortress his headquarters suggested that his writ did not extend far outside it. But he was evidently a believer in the symbols of legitimate government, for a faded red and gold flag drooped over the gateway and an ancient sentry presented arms as I was escorted under the pillared entrance.

I was met by a major domo who conducted me through a reception room of faded elegance, its walls hung with portraits of elderly men in opulent uniforms. Plaques beneath each identified them as past governors; Moorish, British, and Spanish. They all seemed to have been painted by the same hand from the same sitter and when I was ushered into the office of the present incumbent I was faced with him. He rose to greet me with the same arrogant expression on his aquiline face, but both he and his uniform were considerably older than the splendid characters outside.

His welcome was courteous and he spoke good English. He congratulated my father and myself on our Atlantic passage. We were the first American ship to come into Gibraltar for many years. The facilities of the port were at our disposal. Did I wish a physician to attend my father? Was I sure he had nothing infectious?

"Scurvy, your Excellency. Old age. Exhaustion. He needs only fresh fruit, good food, and rest."

The governor seemed to have more confidence in my diagnosis than in obtaining the opinions of whatever doctors they had in Gibraltar, and he knew all about scurvy. He gave me a glass of sherry, saying that it was a specific for the disease. I began to appreciate being treated as the captain of a fine ship rather than as an itinerant peddler.

The Governor poured a glass of sherry for himself and waved me to a chair opposite his large desk. Then he leaned forward and said, "Later, you must tell me about conditions in America. But first—to my duty. What is your cargo?"

"Mostly tobacco, sir. Conditions in America are bad."

"Virginian tobacco?" He rubbed his hands when I nodded. "That will fetch an excellent price. Many of us remember the unique aroma and flavor of Virginian tobacco." He smiled. "It will be necessary to examine and value your cargo."

I explained that while I was the Master of Sabrina my father owned the cargo, and I was not sure he would wish to trade immediately.

"It is not for trade, captain." He studied me with his bright black eyes. "It is for dues. We must have a manifest so that we can calculate your pilotage payments, harbor dues, wharfage, light fees, and so on. It takes money to keep the port operating, to provide law and security in our harbor and city."

I assured him that I understood and would prepare a manifest as soon as I was back aboard. "But, your Excellency, if you have warehouse space available I would like to unload all the cargo out of Sabrina. I need to examine her hull after our hard ocean crossing. We could tally the cargo as it comes ashore."

He said that there was ample space in the government warehouses, and that my suggestion sounded sensible.

I offered him a Virginian cheroot. " To be honest, your Excellency, it is an immense relief for us to arrive in a city where law and order are being preserved. We have passed through so much chaos during the last few years." I hesitated while he lit the cheroot and drew upon it. "My father, sir, is very old. I do not think he can survive many more months at sea. Perhaps you could advise me. Would there be any chance of using our cargo to purchase a small house, so that my father could live out the rest of his days in the sunshine and security of Gibraltar?"

The Governor smoked thoughtfully, and then answered that some such arrangement might be made.

"And I myself have had all I can stomach of months at sea in an undermanned sailing ship. Sabrina is a fine vessel. A metal hull and spars. She is fast—but she is tricky to handle. She was designed for ocean racing. It has taken me years to learn her ways. Now—I think I can outsail any wind ship on the seas. In the hands of the inexperienced she would easily be wrecked. But my experience is not enough—I need a crew also."

"Do you think your ship suitable for the coastwise trade?"

"Eminently—if I could base her on some safe port. If I had a crew I could trust."

"And if Gibraltar provides both, captain?"

"Sabrina could help to supervise the movements of local shipping as well as providing rapid transportation for your government. You have far-flung responsibilities, your Excellency."

He took my point. My father, settled in Gibraltar, would be a hostage for my cooperation in any activities he had in mind. With his own men aboard Sabrina he could profit from her without having to appropriate her, and by retaining me as her captain he would acquire my skill in sailing her.

We began to discuss details, and he became increasingly cordial as our understanding developed. He insisted I eat with him, and ordered his kitchen to prepare a meal for me to take back to my father. The Port Captain joined us for lunch on a stone porch under a gnarled and spreading grapevine. We had excellent omelets, good bread, and some very bad coffee. After we had eaten the governor suggested I return to Sabrina in the company of the Port Captain so that I could discuss our arrangements with my father.

I had started by playing for time and information. But during lunch I saw the advantages a trader could gain by cooperation with a government. The Gibraltar solution might be our optimum answer. I thanked the governor for his hospitality and said I was sure my father would concur with my suggestions. We agreed that Sabrina would go alongside and start unloading that afternoon.

We picked up the escort, plus a donkey loaded with fresh food; the Port Captain's bid for a part of the action. "This will help you live more comfortably on your vessel. Later, His Excellency will arrange a fine house for your father." He went on to congratulate me on my wisdom, extolled the advantages of Calpe as a home port, and , forecast a good profit for all concerned. I agreed that it seemed an ideal place for me to settle, and for my father to rest his bones. We loaded his gifts into the cutter, and were rowed back to Sabrina in an atmosphere of mutual esteem. The Port Captain, the governor, and I could each provide something needed by the other two. We understood each other. My problem was to make Ann understand.

My father was still asleep in his bunk. I leaned over him and explained in a voice loud enough for the Port Captain standing at the head of the companionway to hear, the gist of my arrangement with His Excellency. Ann showed her understanding by a series of grunts and a muttered, "So you're all set to sell us out?"

"No way!" I whispered indignantly. "We're partners. If you don't agree it's no deal." I straightened and called to the Port Captain. "My father suggests you might like to see some of the more valuable items in our cargo. To place in your care before the rest is unloaded. If you'll tell your men to unlash the for'rd hatch I'll show them to you."

He beamed and disappeared, calling to the two guards. Ann muttered, "If you're not selling out, when do we go?"

"Now!" I said, made decisive by frustration. "When I kick the cabin you start the engine. Full ahead!"

"Right on!" Ann muttered approvingly.

I extracted a revolver from under the bunk cushions, stowed it in the front of my shirt, and went on deck. I intended to pull it on the Port Officer, order his two men back into the cutter, and leave Gibraltar with him as hostage. But when I reached the cockpit I found him standing on the foredeck with his own pistol drawn and he gestured me to join him. The two guards had put down their rifles to fumble with the hatch lashings.

I clambered slowly forward, giving Ann time to move from bunk to engine. When I was level with the mainmast I kicked the cabin overhang hard with my heel.

Sabrina bounded ahead. The Port Captain and the two guards staggered and then, while they were still recovering their balance, she reached the end of her scope and came up all standing. Both guards went directly over the bows and the Port Captain was flung sprawling along the deck. I clung to the mast, winded by the impact.

Sabrina was under full throttle with the helm lashed hard over. She reared, listed, and began to charge round the buoy at the end of her line. There was a crescendo of yells from the crew of the cutter as Sabrina heeled over onto their boat, tumbling them onto the bottom boards.

The Port Captain had grabbed a shroud and was struggling to his knees, his pistol coming up.

Ann erupted from the companionway hatch and dived for the wheel. She had shucked her poncho and shirt to reach down into the engine compartment, and the combination of breasts and beard hypnotized the officer for one vital second. I kicked his head, took his pistol, and rolled him on top of his crew in the swamped cutter.

Sabrina accelerated as she circled her mooring. "The axe—cut the line!" shrieked Ann.

I did and nearly went overboard as Sabrina lurched upright and headed at full throttle toward the dockyard, the cutter trailing alongside, awash and shedding its crew. I cut its painter while Ann spun the wheel. Sabrina swung toward the passage between the moles, and I stood almost as hypnotized as the captain by the sight of Ann, her beard streaming in the wind, her breasts bouncing as we hit the swell. "Sentries! End of mole!" she shouted, crouching down in the cockpit.

A slug bounced off the coaming and I joined her, then slid down into the cabin, fished out a rifle, and began to fire back through a port. A burst of machine-gun bullets drummed on the cabin roof, and then I must have winged one of the gunners for it stopped firing and we were safely out into Algeciras Bay.

"Every time—exit—pursued by bullets!" gasped Ann, struggling into her shirt.

"Okay—so I was wrong. I took a chance. I shouldn't have!"

She cut back the engine and turned south. "No—you were right. As you say—if you don't speculate you can't accumulate. Sorry I misjudged you, David, when you outlined your flim-flam."

"Forget it, Ann. I had to make it sound sincere. The Port Captain was listening."

She shed her beard. "Anyway, the danger wasn't as grim as it looked. I had those two guards after their third slug of bourbon. If they hadn't returned you by dark I'd have dumped them overside and sailed."

"Ann—you'd have deserted me?"

"Of course not! I'd have traded for you."

"Traded? With what?"

“Those!" She pointed to the fishing fleet which was now tacking back to harbor. "Sunk 'em one by one. After that anything that came out." She laughed. "This is a veralloy hull. I could cut those wooden boats in half every time I rammed. And knocked out that old tug too! I'd have blockaded Gibraltar until they returned you safe plus damages for mental anguish!" She licked her lips and altered course toward the fishermen who began to scatter. "Maybe we should shake them down anyway. Kind of punitive damages!"

For a moment I was taken by her idea; then I remembered our punch would only last as long as our fuel. "No, Ann! That would be unethical."

"I don't read your ethics. They tried to squeeze us. They missed. So we're free to squeeze them. Squeeze 'em hard!"

"Ann—that's barbarism!"

"Balls! If a guy jumps you and misses—grind him! He's less likely to try again. Those cabron deserve a lesson and we deserve a profit."

"But not at the expense of poor fishermen!" She was silent a moment; then she sighed, "Okay, skipper! Conscience tells me you're right. Piracy's a last resort."

Ann had called me "skipper." However inadvertently, she had acknowledged for the first time that I was captain. I sealed my command with an order. "Put me alongside that!"

I pointed to a boat which had run out of wind and whose three occupants started to row frantically toward Gibraltar when we came up on them. But after I had tossed down a small packet of cheroots they were happy to trade fish and information.

The oldest fisherman spoke some English, and once he found we were not pirates he was glad to help us. He confirmed my impressions; neither Gibraltar nor the surrounding countryside was a site of civilization's rebirth. No deep-sea ship had come through the Straits for many years and he had not seen an aircraft for decades. The Governor and his troops lived on what they could squeeze from the small coasting trade and by taxing the locals.

"But Calpe is better than most places, senor." The old man shrugged. "We can sleep safely at nights."

He had heard that farther up the Mediterranean things were better. There were pirates everywhere, but Malta was said to be a safe port. We collected our fish and they waved us on our way.

We rounded Europa Point and picked up a fair breeze. I set the large genoa and the mizzen, then joined Ann in the cockpit as we started eastward into the Mediterranean.

"We didn't do so badly," she said. "Two rifles, one pistol, a donkeyload of fresh food, two good meals, forty oranges, about six kilos of grapes, three dozen apricots— all for a few cheroots, half a bottle of whiskey, and seven fathoms of light line. I reckon we've shown a profit."

"I should have planned better. We were lucky."

"David, we're both born lucky! And we're a good team. You think well in the crunch. And I read your signals. We're going to make it."

Chapter Twelve
The Atlantic had been the solitude of a single ship and distant shores, of steady winds and long swells. In the Mediterranean the loom of the land was always on the horizon, and the flash of a distant sail an occasional reminder that we were no longer on an empty ocean. The fall weather was inconstant, with the winds shifting in force and direction from hour to hour so that to make our best speed we were frequently changing sails. This wearied us but our excitement as we neared our goal made us as energetic and impatient as I imagine was any racing crew that ever manned Sabrina.

We made good time over the ground and on the twelve-hundred-mile leg toward Malta our average easting was over a hundred miles a day. We sailed and ate oranges. Ann's jaw stopped hurting and her energy returned. She became less abrasive and my own self-confidence grew. My dream was becoming real. We were going to reach the Enclave and I began to wonder what we should do when we did.

It is about twenty-five hundred miles from Gibraltar to Tyre, but we had food and water for many months, so I decided the safest plan would be to run the whole length of the Mediterranean without touching land. In fact, mindful of the old fisherman's warning, I kept as far from land as possible. We rounded Cape Bon ten days out from Gibraltar, and were in the passage between Sicily and Africa when we met the first of the equinoctial gales.

It blew from the northeast and facing it in those narrow waters was far worse than heavy weather in the open Atlantic, where it had not mattered much which way we were blown. The Straits of Bon are eighty miles across, but with Pantellaria to starboard and Sicily to port we had to keep sail on Sabrina or drift onto Africa. We spent our eleventh night gazing apprehensively into darkness and rain, wondering whether we were driving on to shore or out to sea.

At dawn I found that we had actually been standing too close to Sicily for comfort. I bore away to pass north of Malta and at sunset we were sailing fast with the wind abeam. I was sleeping in the cockpit when Ann woke me soon after midnight. She pointed toward the southeast. "Watch!"

I gazed through the squalls. There was a distant flash of light, followed by a shorter flash. Thirty seconds later the sequence was repeated. "That's how I figure a lighthouse looks!" she breathed.

I slid down the companionway and snapped the microdot card into the reader. Then I shouted up to her, "If they're still using the same light pattern—that's Gozo—off Malta!"

It was the first operating lighthouse that either of us had ever seen, and we sat side by side staring entranced. Those flashes were the signals from an organized society, a society interested in the safety of its maritime trade, and with sufficient of it to justify maintaining such aids to navigation. Presently I roused myself and got a bearing before the light was blotted out by returning squalls.

At dawn the wind was still strong, but easing fast, with a moderate sea and Malta clear to starboard. I increased sail, anxious to get through the Straits as quickly as possible, and we were settling down to a cold breakfast in the cockpit when Ann climbed to the cabin roof. "There's a wreck or something over there!"

I needed glasses to identify what Ann had seen with her naked eyes. The wreck was a vessel about forty meters long, rolling heavily, and as we closed I could distinguish a group of figures along her rail hacking and slashing at the cordage which still held her masts floating overside, pounding against her hull.

"What the hell are they doing?" asked Ann.

I had read of such situations. "Trying to cut the masts clear before they're stove in." I studied the wreck. "Maybe we should offer help."

"Why? We don't know who they are!"

I explained that as a captain I had a moral responsibility to aid fellow mariners in distress, and went on to mention the ancient custom of salvage. So she raised no objection when I eased Sabrina closer, but stood studying the wreck through the binoculars. Suddenly she gripped my shoulder. "Take it easy, skipper. There's armed men aboard that hulk. Six of 'em at least. Huddled amidships. Young men—with rifles!"

A fat and elderly one appeared in her bows, shrouded at intervals by the driving spray, and waving frantically. "That must be her skipper," I said.

The hulk was drifting and the only boat on its deck was smashed, but the wreck itself was riding well out of the water and the crew had managed to cut the masts clear. To my inexperienced eye it seemed in no danger of sinking, but both our vessels were being blown down-wind. "They'll be blown ashore before they drown, and the wind's dropping. Let's get out of here."

She ignored my suggestion. The fat man was starting to shout, and I caught on the wind the word, "Melita!" Ann continued to study the wreck. The fat man continued to shout.

Presently she lowered her binoculars. "I think they want us to give 'em a ride to Malta. But I'd rather have that bunch trailing astern than coming aboard." She looked at me. 'Didn't you mention salvage just now? If they take our line?"

"There used to be a law. I don't know if it still applies."

"Not much profit in saving the crew. Might as well try to save the ship." She fished a length of heaving-line from the after locker. "Let's float this back to 'em and see what they do with it."

"I don't think we can tow that hull. Not under sail."

"We can use a touch of silent power." Before I could object she had started the heaving-line floating down on the waves toward the wreck. I maneuvered Sabrina across its bows; the fat man shouted at his crew, and they fished our line aboard. "He's got the right idea," said Ann, speaking from the experience of her five weeks of sea time, as we watched them bend on a heavy hawser.

A hectic half-hour followed as we labored on the after winches to bring the hawser dripping over our counter and make it fast to the mizzen. I went scrambling to and fro between winch and wheel, cursing Ann's rashness while trying to keep Sabrina from luffing, losing way, and drifting down onto the bows of the wreck. I had one terrified moment, her yelling captain poised above me, and the plunging stem of the crippled ship about to crash down onto our stern. Then Sabrina paid off and we were sailing clear with the hawser lifting from the water.

Ann was shouting for more scope and when we had about ten fathoms she waved for them to snub it down. The hawser came taut as I edged Sabrina forward into the seas, sailing hard but making little headway. Ann crouched in the cockpit and started the engine. "They're too far astern to hear us," she gasped, and collapsed exhausted onto a locker. She revived a few minutes later to ask, "Wonder what her cargo is?"

"It's the lives that are important. Brotherhood of the sea."

"Okay for you, David. But I didn't see any sisters aboard. That hulk had better be worth the fuel we're burning." She sat up and stared astern. "Make a deal with her skipper. Tell him well cut him lose if he's not sensible." She adjusted the throttle to keep us moving slowly ahead.

The wind had continued to drop and through the megaphone I tried to bargain with the fat man in the bows. After he realized that our language was English he yelled that he was bound to Valetta from Sardinia, that he had been dismasted in the gale, and that there were pirates on the Sicilian coast who would soon emerge. He shouted "Guard—Guard!" and pointed to the clump of young men huddled amidships.

"Malta—is it safe?" I yelled back.

"Safe—yes—safe! Only safe place. Guard in Malta," he shouted.

"What do you expect him to say?" interjected Ann. "Seeing as how he's trying to persuade us to drag him there. Go on—get an agreement on salvage."

But the fat man had disappeared to look after his yawing vessel. "I don't think we've got much choice. Not if you're hoping for a reward. I remember reading that if we let go the tow we'll lose any claim. We've got to trust somebody sometime. At least there's a chance that gang will be grateful."

Ann shrugged. "If that's your hope we'd better speed up before we're hijacked." She opened the throttle another notch. "You concentrate on keeping the sails filled." She glanced astern. "They look too shot to notice the extra pull in that cable!"

We towed the wreck all through the rest of the day and Valetta was about twenty miles ahead when dusk fell. In the darkness and with the seas moderating we were less cautious about maintaining the fiction of being under sail alone and used more engine. During the night we were up to three knots and by dawn we were off Valetta. We turned the headland toward the entrance to Grand Harbor as the sun rose.

I had read Malta's history in the encyclopedia, but Valetta harbor was even more impressive than I had imagined. The ochre cliffs and yellow buildings were golden in the early morning sun. Ann cut the turbine and clamped the cover over the engine control panel as we sailed slowly through the entrance with our tow rope just taut. I pointed out the silhouette of Fort St. Angelo against the sky on one side of the harbor and the bastions of the city rising on the other. But she was more interested in the motor launch racing to meet us.

"They've got fuel here, If they've got gratitude too they'll replace what we've used hauling this hulk in."

I broke out the Stars and Stripes. Ann started to object, but my first glance around the crowded harbor and busy wharves had shown me that here was an active trading center. I judged it wiser to dock under our true colors and join the local action than to try to hide what must eventually emerge.

There were men in khaki in the launch, and the armed group on our tow were shouting to them. I myself was too busy trying to prevent the hulk from ramming us to listen, but after the exchange the launch came alongside. A young man with a dark skin and black curly hair scrambled aboard. He was clean-shaven and I knew that, at last, we had reached civilization.

"America—wonderful!" He seized my hand. "Welcome to Malta! I am pilota."

"My name's Randolph," I explained, still trying to steer. "And this is—" I hesitated and Ann mouthed a signal. "This is my wife."

The pilot nodded to Ann while continuing to wring my hand. "You want to berth here, Captain Randolph? Good. Nobody sick aboard? Good. You can sail in, eh captain? Only one launch in Valeria today. Needed to pull caique." He glanced astern. "Tell her to slip the tow!"

Ann glowered when I gave the order, but she started freeing the hawser. The pilot took my arm and pointed to a vacant berth between two caiques moored with their bows to a stone wharf and their sterns held out by kedge anchors. "Good if you put your ship in there, captain."

The tow rope splashed into the water as Ann at last got it unwound and dropped it overside. The fat man on the poop of the caique waved and shouted, "God with you—I come—visit," while the launch picked up the hawser and began to tug the caique toward the shipyard. Sabrina, set free, began to move faster through the still water.

Spectators were gathering on the quays, and I suddenly realized that I was about to dock Sabrina under sail before an audience of real sailors. I shouted to Ann to furl the mizzen. The pilot chattering beside me offered neither help nor advice. As I had brought Sabrina across the Atlantic I was obviously competent to take her across Valetta harbor and Ann strong enough to drop the mizzen.

But he did stop talking when a puff of wind heeled us as we came under the stern of the first caique. I put the wheel hard over and Sabrina went for the gap between the two ships like a rat bolting for its hole. The crewmen leaning over the taffrail decided I might not make it and went scrambling back across their poop. The jenny thrashed violently as we came up into the wind, our shrouds brushed the caiques counter as we shot round her stern, and I cursed Ann's interdiction of the engine as I braced myself for the crash when we hit the wharf.

Sabrina slowed abruptly and stopped with a jerk, her stem centimeters from the stones of the pier. I straightened from the wheel and looked around to find that Ann had thrown a rope around the after anchor-line of the caique we had just missed, and had got the bight over a cleat in time to check us.

The pilot let out his breath and clapped me on the shoulder. "Nicely done, captain! Nicely done!" A burst of applause came from the crewmen who were clustering back along the caique's rail.

I stood, letting my heart slow, while some of them jumped down to take our mooring lines. People came swarming aboard to congratulate me and help tie up Sabrina. The pilot was describing in a polyglot tongue with English predominating how I had brought this fine ship all the way from America and rescued Captain Godolfo and his caique from the storm and the pirates.

Ann came pushing her way through the men crowding our decks. "What kind of a fool maneuver was that?"

"Normal operating procedure!" I was euphoric at our safe arrival among friendly people. Ann scowled and went below.

For the next hour I was fully occupied in getting Sabrina properly moored, stowing the sails, and generally tidying up the deck. I had plenty of willing helpers so I did not recall Ann from whatever she was doing in the cabin. When she did return she had fixed her hair and her face and strapped on her gun belt.

After the crowd had dispersed I sat on the cabin roof and lit a cheroot Ann started to sort out lines on the fore-deck. "Take a rest, Ann," I urged her. "Appreciate that we've made it!"

She threw down the line she was coiling and snarled, "You've made it, Buster!"

"No, Ann. Both of us—working together." I gestured to the busy harbor. "Ships—trade—people! This is prosperity."

"You won their hearts with your show-off seamanship. If I hadn't been smart with that line you'd have had us halfway up Main Street!"

"I did bring her in a bit fast. She carries a lot of way. Long stem and heavy keel."

"Listen—you phony! Don't quote your damn books at me." Her face was furious.

It took me several moments to realize that Ann was jealous. Nobody had paid any attention to her, and she was not the kind of girl to accept disregard. It was her own fault. "They assumed I'm the captain. And you signaled to be introduced as my wife."

"I misjudged things!"

Our developing altercation was interrupted by the arrival of the Harbor Master, a fat man in a peaked cap, who welcomed me officially to Valetta, inquired about our cargo and our needs, and assured me of our safety. He climbed down into the cockpit and stood gazing around in admiration.

"It is many years since I saw such a fine vessel. And even longer since I boarded a ship from America. How does it go over there?"

I told him and his face fell, then brightened. "Soon, it will be better. You see. Like is happening here." He waved his hand around his harbor. "Ten years ago—almost nothing! Now—more ships come every month. From all eastern Mediterranean. Malta is safe!"

Uneasily I asked about docking charges, light dues, wharfage, and other expenses.

"Gratis—all free, my friend! Why should we charge money to men who risk their lives to bring us goods?"

"You don't keep this operation going on love!" Ann cut in.

The Harbor Master was taken aback by my mate's intrusion into a business discussion, but he answered courteously. "Trade, signora. It brings wealth to everyone. We have warehouses. We have a dockyard. Ships buy supplies. Captains come to tranship cargoes. Valetta is a free port. No squeeze. No robbery. An honest market. Law and order."

"Who runs Malta?"

"The Council, signora. Democratically elected. Even the ladies vote!"

"And who are those uniformed thugs with guns?"

The Harbor Master looked hurt. "They are the Guard, Madam. The Guard has its headquarters in Malta. Malta has always been its home. They protect us. They protect many other places. It is good to have them." He blinked under Ann's steady glare and turned to me. "Captain, you are free to dispose of your cargo how you will. But if you have Virginia tobacco—retail direct on the wharf. That way you will get the best price. It is a luxury!"

I pressed a box of cheroots on him, and he continued to advise me about the trading patterns in Malta. Presently Ann interrupted again. "Do you have salvage laws here?"

"Salvage? Ah—the caique you rescued! We have custom, signora. And that is stronger than any law." He returned to me. "Captain, you will not regret your courage. That caique of Captain Godolfo's was on charter to the Guard. She was bringing one of their sections back from Sardinia. I am sure the Commondante will be generous. You saved valuable lives as well as much property."

"I don't think she was actually in danger of sinking—" I had started to say when Ann's gesture cut me off.

"Not from the sea, perhaps," said the Harbor Master. "But from the Sicilian pirates—yes. Captain Godolfo—I have just left him—he will be over to pay his respects and express his gratitude as soon as his ship is secured."

"Can we go ashore? Malta is an island of great historical interest?"

"Is it? So!" said the Harbor Master. "One day I must read that history. Now—we are too busy making it. You have made it. First ship from America in so many years. Everybody will welcome you. Your vessel is safe alongside. No thievery in my harbor! And no foolish restraints for brave sailors. Though outside the dockyard—it would he best for the signora to be discreet." He pointed along the dock. "That is the Hotel for Mariners. Both of you will be welcome there. The food is good, the beds clean, the prices moderate, and the police—they do not interfere! Not in my harbor! You are my guests." The Harbor Master rose. "If you have any problems, any needs, any questions, there is my office. By the old gates. Come and see me. Any time you wish." He climbed up onto the dock-side, smiled, saluted, and rolled away.

"We should have asked him about fuel," I remarked, watching him go.

"Later, David. Later." Ann stared around her, unwilling to accept the evidence of her eyes and ears. "For now we keep the engine under wraps. In case we have to leave fast." She hushed me when I started to argue. "I smell something! On the surface it's too damned good!"

"It's prosperity, Ann. A free port They're as old as history. In times of trouble traders look for a secure place to trade. There are fortunes for those who provide it. Honest fortunes. This was how Hong Kong, Singapore, Shanghai, all the great trading ports started."

"Here comes our fat captain," broke in Ann. "Maybe he'll tell us the truth!"

Captain Godolfo began calling his thanks from a hundred meters down the wharf, and clambered aboard Sabrina still expressing it. He embraced Ann. Then he embraced me. He was transported by the beauty of my mate. We had saved his caique, his cargo, and his life. He was in our debt to all eternity.

He was large, he was fat, he brought with him the scent of ships, of wine, of garlic. He was clean-shaven. He was immediately enamored of Ann and he showed it.

She went soggy under his admiration, and stopped me when I began to inquire about the value of his cargo. Instead she showed him over Sabrina, while pumping him about conditions in Malta. When they returned to the cockpit he sat on a locker, fanning himself with his hat, and assuring us that Valetta was all the Harbor Master had claimed.

"And with this fine ship—my God—you can make your fortune, captain. And with such a fine mate—a true marino—her seamanship—when you took the tow! I would exchange all of my crew for one true sailor like you, signora!" He thumped the veralloy of the coaming. "Bulletproof! My God!" He shook his head in wonder. "All the fine yachts were sunk long ago. And never did I see one made of this fine metal."

Ann brought him coffee. "But how long before they confiscate our fine ship. Captain Godolfo?"

"Here in Valetta? Never, signora. They do that once and no more ships come!" He slapped me on the back. "We patrons support each other. You saved me—you are one of us. My God—this is good coffee! If you sell this, you must sell for much." He stood up. "Come—come and meet some other captains."

We strolled with him along the wharf, past ships working cargo, and he shouted to friends to join him on the verandah, to meet the captain from America and his beautiful mate.

Presently we found ourselves relaxing in cane chairs on a porch overlooking the harbor, chewing dried squid, eating grapes, and drinking wine. Various captains and mates from the other ships in port began to drift in to drink our health, hear our story, admire my ship, and compliment my wife. They were of all ages and hues, they brought women with them, but they had one other interest in common—trade.

They were avid for news of trading action, and they were free with information of their own. Competition had not as yet forced secrecy on the mercantile pattern. America interested them, but was far outside their present range. What they wanted to hear about was the western Mediterranean, and they were raucously approving when Ann described some of the high spots of our Gibraltar visit.

"A few more years—and that old fox on Calpe—he will be finished!" said a hook-nosed sailor who looked more like a pirate than my image of one. He had made the dangerous voyage to eastern Morocco and the Governor of Gibraltar had squeezed most of the profit out of his venture. "The Guard will take over. Gibraltar will become another free port."

"Who is this Guard?' I asked.

"Protection. They hire themselves out. Mostly to settlements. They are honest traders—like us."

"How do they collect?" asked Ann, leaning forward.

"Most of the settlements are rich now," said Captain Godolfo.

"But not always!" said Ann, picking away.

An old captain broke in. "There were always girls in the settlements." He saw Ann's expression and added, 'There was no need to buy or sell. The Guard got a contract to protect a settlement and gave credit. They sent young Guardsmen—trained fighters. Young heroes!" The old man shrugged. "There were plenty of fertile girls in most settlements who enjoyed paying. Today, of course, the settlements settle with cash."

Ann tried to press him further but the conversation veered back toward more orthodox trade. The talk of commerce flowed around us as we drank, ate, and talked. I began to get the feel and flavor of what was developing. Transportation was reviving. There were immense dumps of cocooned stores in remote places and at present ships were the only way of moving them to where they were needed. The most valuable merchandise was light and compact: drugs, electronic parts, fine chemicals, and so forth. All the needs of a society being reborn. Ideal cargoes for a small fast sailing ship with an emergency engine. Sail had, for a short while, regained its glory in the Mediterranean for there was little stored fuel left and the few refineries were hardly back in production.

There were fortunes to be made in the next few years for men with the courage, skills, capital and means to move cargoes around the littoral. These captains were not the hired sailors of some remote owner. They were owners and traders in their own right. They knew where to go, what to pay, and who would buy.

The conversation on the verandah as the sun went down was like many I had heard in the inns of Virginia, when a group of traders had stabled their pack animals for the night, and sat around the fire drinking and exchanging information. But here in Valetta there was an atmosphere of growth and hope, in contrast to the gloom in which those evenings had usually ended.

I was enjoying myself and so was Ann. Other women began to come onto the verandah as the evening wore on, but she remained the center of attraction, and I glowed in the reflected glory of my bright companion. This was the first time I had seen her in a social situation without her beard, and she fascinated us all. She was the loveliest in a swarm of pretty girls. "With a mate like Anna—my God!" said Godolfo, pressing more wine on me.

Food was produced, mostly of a kind I had never tasted before. Guitars were brought out. The hawk-nosed captain sang, the ancient captain sang, Captain Godolfo sang. I contributed a ballad myself and it was well received for I have a pretty fair baritone when I can release it. Ann cheered, kissed me, and encouraged me to an encore. The lights of Valetta glistened in the dark waters of the ancient harbor. More girls appeared and I was persuaded by one of them to dance. When I did Ann cut in and showed she had a natural talent for dancing as she had for everything else.

We finished amid heat and applause, and rejoined Godolfo and his gang, and Ann, as if to offset any wrong impression her dancing might have created, began to give her impression of a mate who had just kicked a crew across the western ocean. I watched with amusement and pride as she sat, tilting her chair, her revolver dangling from her hip, drinking, talking, laughing. Despite her face, her figure, and her voice she still managed to give the impression of a bucko mate—or at least the image of a bucko mate as described in sea stories. Ann was at her best when purposely pretending to be something other than herself.

She was not pretending to be drunk, but that is what she became. When I stood up to take my leave she showed no signs of moving, so I gripped her arm and lifted her to her feet. There was a reluctant moment, then she stumbled with me down the steps and we headed back toward our ship. At one point she flung her arms around me and we danced on the dockside to the shouts of our colleagues who had crowded the verandah rail to cheer our progress.

I helped Ann aboard Sabrina, guided her down the companionway, and lifted her onto her bunk. Then I helped her off with her gun belt and boots. When she had trouble with her jeans I helped her off with those too, and closed the companionway hatch. She complained of the heat, so I pulled her shirt over her head and began to sponge her down with a damp cloth.

That made her giggle, and her giggle started a natural sequence of events. When, at last, I fell asleep beside her I slept more soundly than I had slept for many nights.

Chapter Thirteen
I was awakened by being pushed out of the bunk onto the cabin floor. As I lay trying to decide where I was, Ann walked over me and up the companionway to the cockpit I fell asleep, but woke again to the sound of water sloshing on the deck above. Presently I roused myself sufficiently to go and find what was happening.

It was dawn on a still September morning. Ann was standing on the foredeck pulling up bucketfuls of the Mediterranean and inverting them over her bead. Her wet underwear was transparent. Her golden hair was plastered about her cheeks and fell in damp ringlets onto her smooth shoulders. Droplets of water on her bronzed skin glistened in the rising sun. She was scowling.

Presently she finished dousing herself, hung the plastic bucket on a stay, and came aft to the cockpit. I stood up to face her; her gray eyes were bloodshot.

"You lousy bastard!" she said. "You wait until I'm terrified or drunk. Then you take advantage of me!"

"But in the gale I was just as scared! And last night I was just as drunk!" I protested, following her below.

She began to towel her golden hair. I reached out to take her shoulders. She twisted away. "Keep your hands off me, Captain Randolph. Mate's strictly a nautical term. Understand?"

"Check! Malta's swarming with girls who don't carry knives!"

My head was hurting. I filled the percolator and started the stove. We tried to bicker, but were both too ill to fight successfully. We finished sitting in sullen silence opposite each other in the cockpit, sipping black coffee and watching Valetta come to life.

A group of uniformed young men appeared farther down the wharf and began to load weapons and kit onto a motor launch which had come alongside during the night. She was a battered looking boat with a pair of machine guns mounted on her foredeck, but she was made of metal and in attempt to communicate with Ann I asked, "That launch—is it veralloy?"

"Veralloy? God no!" Ann looked at me with contempt. "She's an old Dabur Mark Four. Aluminum. Twin-screw diesel. Must be more than sixty years old. Israelis built dozens of 'em. In her day she'd do close to thirty knots. The way those guys are maintaining her I doubt she'll do twenty. And she should mount a pair of 20mm cannon aft, but I guess they've fouled those up long ago. The grots!"

"How come you know such a hell of a lot about her?"

"That old captain on the verandah last night. He used to command one—when he was a boy. He said there weren't any sailors in that Guard. I can see he's right. Guard! Christ! What a sweet racket they've got here! Reminds me of Sherando!"

"If they'd had a section of the Guard at Sherando the Elders wouldn't have had to sell you for a couple of cows!"

She jumped to her feet winced, and snapped. "The men in Sherando did their own fighting. They didn't rent mercenaries!"

"Ann—that's the first compliment you've ever paid Sherando!"

She swore, then gazed moodily at the Dabur. "This place is run by fascists!" She used terms like fascist without any real idea of their historical derivation or current significance, but my head was hurting too much to correct her, and customers were beginning to arrive.

We traded through the morning with plenty of buyers and at what seemed excellent prices, for Virginia hurley had an almost legendary reputation. It is a pleasure to do business in a cash economy when one has something valuable to sell and there are attractive goods to buy. Toward noon I left Ann in charge of the operation and strolled into the main market outside the dockyard. I was able to confirm the estimate of current prices which the Harbor Master had given me, and to study the varieties of merchandise which were being offered. By the time I started back to Sabrina my headache had disappeared.

Ann was standing on the wharf talking to the hooknosed caique captain from the evening before. "Skipper," she said as I joined them, "you remember Captain Hosein? He's got a few cases to take through to Naxos. It's off his route, and as we're going east he's offering 'em to us. The freight rate is fabulous and half's payable in advance."

"Where's Naxos?"

"An island in the Aegean, north of Crete," said Captain Hosein. "A rich settlement. Credit good all over. And only one hundred miles off course to Tyre."

"But too far for you?"

"It is not the distance. It is the danger!" Hosein smiled and shrugged. "The Cyclades—many pirates. My caique —slow, wooden. Your ship fast, metal, bulletproof. For me the risk is great. For you it is small. Only profit great!"

"Skipper—we should cash in on our assets!" urged Ann. "The more capital we have when we reach the Enclave the better off we'll be."

There was much to what she said. "Give me time to think about it."

"I stay in Valeria many days," said Hosein. "You talk to other patrons. They will tell you I speak true. And talk to bank."

"Bank?"

"Bank here, oh yes! Branches all over. In Enclave. In settlements. Branch on Naxos. Honest bank. Safe place. Only safe way to move money. Tomorrow I take you. See manager."

The news that there was a banking system in operation was the most exciting I had heard since our arrival in Malta. I was rising from the huckstering of trade into the business of commerce. In the future—

Captain Hosein recalled me to the present by pointing to a caique lying farther along the wharf. "That my ship. Those five cases on deck—they are for Naxos."

"What's in 'em?"

"Bits for computer. I bring from cache in Morocco. That old cabron in Calpe, he grab much of my profit. I do not want pirates to take the rest. So I offer you the big share."

"Computers? They've got computers on that island?"

"Sure. Large—large computers. Making Naxos very rich."

I could not understand how, but Ann interrupted. "When I was the radio operator at Sherando I often worked Naxos. It is the most civilized settlement in the world. As civilized as the Enclave."

Ann's use of the word civilized differed from my own, but I knew she meant that Naxos had a technology-based society. I promised Hosein that I would examine the risk-profit ratio and all three of us went to the verandah to eat lunch together.

The next day Hosein took me through the narrow crowded streets of Valetta to meet the manager of the bank. It was an inspiring experience. I had looked through old bank buildings in the valley, always the sturdiest and most opulent structure in every small town, but they had been empty shells, sad reminders of a prosperous past. The Valetta Bank was bustling and the manager welcomed me warmly.

"I have been trying to get in touch with you, Captain Randolph," he said, sending one of his girls for coffee. He was a small man with bright quick eyes, clean-shaven as most men of his class in Malta. "You already have funds with us. Substantial funds!"

"How—what?"

He enjoyed my surprise. "The Accountant General of the Guard deposited a first payment with us against the salvage for Captain Godolfo's caique. She was on charter to the Guard, and the Guard are meticulous in meeting their commercial obligations." He pulled out a file and showed me an account sheet in my name, with a credit so large that I had trouble in suppressing my astonished pleasure.

I sat discussing with the manager the commercial possibilities that were opening up in the Mediterranean, enjoying the experience of being treated not only as a ship's captain but as a ship-owner of substance. He was as fascinated with Sabrina's profit-potential as I was. He leaned across his desk and spoke with the confidential air of a merchant banker advising an important client. "At present, Captain Randolph, your vessel is unique. There are refurbished steamers and motor vessels around the Mediterranean but the shortage of fuel is still critical. Almost all the stored supplies have been exhausted. The inland coal mines are unreachable because of bandits and barbarians.

For most transportation we have to depend on sailing caiques."

"That armed patrol boat I saw in the harbor. There's fuel for that?"

"The Daburl It is one of the Guard's few armed vessels. They have some old steamers, tugs, and power launches but very little fuel for any of them. They have to bid on what commercial transportation is available." He accepted a cheroot and spoke with enthusiasm of the prospects before us. "In a few years there will again be fast ships, transport aircraft, helicopters. But for the moment—your ship is alone. Establish a firm mercantile base now, captain, and you will have a rewarding role in the coming transportation explosion."

I thanked him for his advice, was instructed in how to operate the first bank account I had ever had, and rejoined Hosein. "We'll take your cargo to Naxos," I promised in my euphoria.

Before I had time to reconsider the five cases were already stowed in place of the tobacco we had sold. We could not replace the fuel we had used because Ann continued to insist that we keep the turbine hidden. "Let those Nazis know we have an impeller in the keel and they'll find some legalism to grab Sabrina."

"Ann, what makes you think that?"

"Because I would if I was them!" An unanswerable argument. "Give me time to work up a deal. I'll get us fuel."

She wouldn't get it from the gang with whom she spent most of her time carousing in the hotel. The Guard were the only people who might give us fuel. But I did not quibble for I was in no hurry to sail. We had earned a period of rest and recreation and how Ann chose to spend it was her business. I preferred the more civilized company of various friends I made in Malta, among them Cleone—a girl who was pretty, experienced, and truly feminine.

One morning a week after our arrival I returned from a visit to Cleone to find Ann standing on the wharf arguing with a major of the Guard. There was a flush on her cheeks and anger in her voice, so I called, "I am Captain Randolph. Can I help you, major?"

The major had been listening to Ann with the expression of one trying to reason with a childish oldster. He turned and came to meet me, leaving Ann still expostulating. My name's Lumb. I'm the Transportation Officer." We shook hands. He was a large man with a scarred face, a hard grip, and an immaculate uniform. "I was hoping to look over your ship, captain."

Before I could answer Ann had joined us. "And I've just told him I don't want any uniformed thugs aboard!"

"For God's sake!" I was irritated by my mate's gratuitous insult to a senior officer in a powerful organization.

"Some more convenient time then, Mrs. Randolph." Lumb took my arm and moved me along the wharf much as if he were moving away from a yapping dog, while Ann continued to protest. "Your wife's a girl with spirit."

"She's strong-minded," I agreed.

"There are not many like her in Malta."

"There's nobody like Ann anywhere!" With my meager experience of young women before Malta I had only thought Ann unusual. After a week in Valetta I had realized she was unique. When she turned into the hotel to join her verandah friends, I added, "Thank God!"

Lumb laughed, and as we strolled out of the dockyard into the town he brought the conversation around to what I had already guessed was the reason for his visit. The Guard were interested in chartering Sabrina, and he began to point out to me the advantages of such an arrangement. "We pay captains well for taking our men as passengers. And pirates seldom attack a well-found vessel when there is a section of the Guard aboard."

"And the cargo?"

"You can carry what you wish for your own profit. Our transportation problem is to move our sections to and from those settlements with which we have contracts. An important clause in those contracts is regular rotation of personnel. To prevent our men from becoming involved in local politics or establishing other permanent attachments. We are strictly a commercial operation, Captain Randolph. We supply armed protection to those who employ us. No racial, religious, or political biases of any kind. Your wife's accusation that we are fascists is a slander. Here on Malta, where we have our headquarters, we support the decisions of the elected Council. It is because of our presence that Malta enjoys its present tranquility. An essential for a free port, as I'm sure you will agree."

As a shipowner of substance I did agree. He invited me to join him for a drink at one of the sidewalk cafes and went on to outline some of the additional benefits the Guard offered its charter captain. "The settlements we protect are all prosperous and eager to trade. Your ship will be welcome for what you bring beside the Guardsmen you are carrying. And if you base your ship here on Malta we can supply you with a house and servants for your comfort while you are in port."

That was an unexpected fringe benefit I would enjoy a permanent address and a place to entertain.

He saw my pleasure at the prospect and expanded on it. "Also, while you command a vessel on charter to the Guard, you would have the rank, rights, and social privileges of an officer in the Guard. We do not extend that courtesy to many captains. Most of them are not officer material, as I'm sure you will have noticed from the company your wife keeps. But a man with your background will be more than welcome in our mess."

The Guard officers in Malta were an elite. I would enjoy belonging to an elite. I ordered more wine for both of us and admitted that I was attracted by the idea of taking a charter. "But my wife—you heard her opinion."

Lumb let me see his surprise that I thought my wife's opinion was relevant.

"Ann owns half of Sabrina." I explained.

"But you are her master!"

"Of Sabrina. Not of Ann." I did not wish to appear as a ship's captain with an insubordinate mate or a husband with a disobedient wife so I added, "You try to convince her and you'll see what I'm up against."

He sipped his wine, studied me, then asked, "You think she will listen?"

"She'll listen all right. But God knows what she'll say."

"Then, with your permission, I will describe the realities of the situation to your partner. I am not inexperienced in dealing with such problems." He finished his wine, saluted, and strode on up the street. I walked slowly back to Sabrina.

I could see the many advantages of a Guard charter, but Ann cut me off before I could properly present them. "Charter to the Guard! To hell with that! Bunch of Nazis!"

As usual she had no real understanding of the historical insult she was using, but I avoided that side issue. "We'd get a house, Ann. A comfortable house with servants."

"I don't plan on being planted in some Valetta back alley so you can rise in the social scale and get an unrestricted license to screw. I'm a partner in this enterprise. Remember?"

"Half the profits and free access to our passengers. We'll be transporting horny young men. What more can you want?"

"Patronizing young zits! I've been slapping 'em off ever since we've been in this damned place. Good thing I carry a gun."

"The gun probably attracts 'em. They see you as a challenge."

"Then there's a few shocked cubs around. You can tell your pal Lumb that his boys may wear pretty uniforms but they're weak on unarmed combat. There's five of 'em with bruised balls!"

"For God's sake, Ann—be careful who you slug! Hitting cops is a crime any place. Outside the dock area—"

"I don't intend to go outside the dock area. I want no part of this racket. Anyway, we're supposed to be making for the Enclave. Or has your thirst to reach civilization been slaked by so much soft tail?"

I could see it was useless for me to try to persuade her. As I realized how unsuited Ann would be to life in Valetta. The women of Malta had all the freedom they needed. Nobody could call Cleone's life restricted. But with her present attitudes Ann was unfitted to live in any civilized community. Unless she modified her behavior she would get herself into as much trouble in Malta as she had in Sherando. So I only said, "Major Lumb may come and explain the Guard offer to you himself. I told him you're half-owner. If he does—remember we still need fuel and he's the guy who controls the supply. Hear him out and be polite. I suspect you've already broken enough pf their laws for him to arrest you—inside the dockyard or out of it. And if he does—" I shrugged.

"I know Carl Lumb's reputation. He's Security Officer as well as Transport Czar. Damned Gestapo! Okay, I'll be nice to him if he comes sniffing around. But you're not going to prostitute Sabrina!"

I did not mention chartering to Ann again, hoping that she would modify her views as she expanded her circle of disreputable friends. She and I went our own ways, and we both enjoyed ourselves. After two weeks I still thought it possible that some compromise could be worked out, with Ann keeping her libertinism and me getting a house. Cleone, wise in the ways of Malta, told me that almost everything was possible if one approached a problem through the right channels, and I went to some trouble following those channels. There was usually a Guard officer at the end of each.

I was with Cleone one afternoon toward the end of September when Hosein came hammering on the door of her apartment. After I had got dressed and let him in he stood panting. For days he had been growing increasingly worried that I might renege on my tentative agreement to take his cargo to Naxos and that he would have to sail the gauntlet of the Cyclades himself. When he recovered his breath he gasped, "That cabron Lumb! That strongarm tombo! He is aboard your ship. And his sergeant on dockside. He has Ann in cabin. I think he try to force her to agree to his damned charter. If not—he'll drag her off to calabozo. And you know what that means, amigo!"

I was not sure, but I could guess. I kissed Cleone and set off at the double toward the harbor. I did not object to Lumb trying to persuade Ann by arguments, or even threats. But I wasn't going to have my mate hauled away and beaten into agreement. The bastard wouldn't have dared to do such a thing to a member of the crew of any other ship in port. Because I had been sympathetic to his suggestions he was acting as if I could be pushed around.

I showed I couldn't by knocking his sergeant into the harbor when he tried to stop me going aboard my own ship. I jumped down into the cockpit, threw open the hatch, and slid down the companionway. Then I stopped dead.

Ann was naked, but obviously by her own choice. She screamed and pulled the blanket around her. Lumb started to put on his pants. I tried to retreat backwards up the companionway.

"David!" Ann cried, and I stopped. "David—please don't beat me!"

"Beat you—?" I stared at her, hunched on the bunk, her pray eyes wide. Lumb finished putting on his pants. Then he put on his uniform tunic and tightened his belt. He kept his dignity in a situation embarrassing for all three of us. Finally he adjusted his cap and faced me. "Doubtless you want an explanation, Captain Randolph."

"An explanation?" All I wanted was an excuse to withdraw. Shouts and splashings from the harbor suggested one. "Can that sergeant of yours swim?"

"Sergeant Griffin? God—no!" He jumped forward and started up the companionway.

"Carl—Carl! Don't leave me! Don't let my husband—"

Lumb turned on the ladder. "Do not dare to strike your wife until after I have offered you satisfaction!" he snapped, and disappeared through the hatch.

"Satisfaction?" I asked Ann. "What the hell's he talking about?"

She had stopped sobbing the instant Lumb had left. "You idiot! I'm pretending to be scared of you. And that's a damned difficult thing to pretend. I don't want Carl to think you're a—"

I slapped her face, then raced up the companionway to try to explain things to Lumb.

He was helping to recover his sergeant from Valeria harbor. "What do you mean—satisfaction?" I asked. Then I was suddenly aware that the dripping sergeant, various people along the wharf, and the occupants of the verandah were watching with the fascination of an audience that sees a killing in the making.

Lumb took a deep breath and was starting to apologize for trying to seduce my wife, when Ann's head appeared in the hatch. The marks of my fingers were outlined in red on her cheek, for I had really belted her. She was yelling, "Carl! Stop it! David's not a fighter! He's not to blame!"

The bitch and the bastard! "Tell your sergeant to give you a gun!" I shouted at Lumb, loosening the butt strap on my own. I had avoided shoot-outs in the valley, but had always kept in shape in case I was forced into the kind of situation I was now in. And, for once, I wanted to be in it.

"You can't fight here!" It was the Harbor Master shouting as he came rolling along the wharf. "Major Lumb—have you gone mad? The colonel will have your balls if you infringe the sanctuary of the port!"

"He can have his balls," I said. "I just want his guts."

Ann, in the hatch, muttered, "Oh, Christ! You two idiots—"

I swung round and caught her a crack across the other cheek that knocked her back down the companionway into the saloon. There was a cheer from her friends on the verandah as I slammed the hatch closed and shot the bolt. This was a nightmare of incongruities. Everybody was acting out of character, me most of all.

Lumb seized my shoulder. "I told you to keep your hands off Ann!" His rage was real. So was mine. I jerked myself free shouting, "Tell your thug to give you a gun!"

The sergeant squelched along the deck, but instead of giving his major a gun he grabbed his arm. The Harbor Master came to assist, and between them they wrestled Lumb back onto the dockside. They held him there while he cooled. Finally he faced me.

"I will arrange for a private garden where we can settle this matter." His complexion was alternating between white and red. "I would not normally consider exchanging shots with a caique captain. But with you—" His voice was drowned by yells from the verandah. I caught something about his second calling on me, and then he was marching off down the wharf, followed by catcalls, his sergeant, and a trail of water.

I faced the crowd along the rail. "I'll spread the bastard's brains all over the garden for you!"

Hosein's laughter turned to alarm. "For God's sake— no! Sail now, this evening."

"And leave the cabron to say I've faded? Do you want him to think that ships' captains are cowards?"

"We don't give a damn what he thinks we are!" said Godolfo, clambering down to join me. "We know you're no coward, David. But if you stay one of you will get hurt."

"I mean to kill the son of a bitch!"

Godolfo wrung his hands. "Disaster—either way! If you kill him our relations with the Guard will be bad. If he kills you he will be finished. Do you want to destroy a good man?"

"A good man! Him?"

"Carl is better than most of them. If he kills you by accident he'll be tossed out of the Guard. If you kill him he'll be dead. And Anna will be in deep trouble!"

"If anybody comes out of this smelling sweet, it'll be her!" My rage was dying and I could see my dilemma. There was only one sensible thing to do. Get out. "Godolfo, will you give Lumb a message?"

"Surely, my friend."

"Tell him he's lucky that Ann didn't get her claws any deeper! After I've dumped her in Tyre, if he still wants satisfaction I'll give him a bellyful of it when I come back."

"I will be glad to tell him that. But you will never leave Anna. You love each other!" Godolfo wiped the sweat from his face. "And now, my friend, get under way while you still have her under control." He nodded toward the hatch, and I began to realize that a number of Ann's friends hanging over the verandah rail were equally anxious for me to remove her from Malta.

Hosein was already letting go Sabrina's bow lines. I started the engine, no need to hide that any longer. The crowd poured off the verandah to cast us free and cheered as I went astern. I thought fleetingly of Cleone, and then I was fully occupied in taking Sabrina across Grand Harbor. There was silence from below decks.

By the time we had reached the chop of the open Mediterranean I was again rational and beginning to worry about what Ann might be doing. I adjusted the throttle, lashed the wheel, and undid the hatch.

She was sitting on her bunk, fully dressed, glaring at me as I came down the companionway. "Well—you sure screwed that up! Here we are at sea with our tanks still half-empty and you burning fuel like there are gas-stations all over the Mediterranean!"

"What the hell do you mean?"

"Why do you think I was letting Carl take off his pants?"

"Taking them off or putting them on?"

"Taking them off, you idiot! The action hadn't started when you came bursting in. If you'd stayed with that piece of yours another half-hour Sabrina'd have been alongside the oil wharf getting her tanks topped up! And we'd have a radio aboard!"

"Was that why you were giving yourself to Lumb?"

"Giving myself? I was selling myself for three hundred liters of fuel oil and a radio transmitter!"

"I don't believe it! You're just saying that as an excuse for a bang."

"You've never complained about getting pleasure as well as profit from a trade! You swindle customers for fun as well as cash! And what's so wrong in getting my share of fun when you've surely been taking yours with that zoftig—Cleone, or whatever her name is!"

Ann's remark showed that she had been jealous, which was some small recompense for my sacrifice. I shrugged. "Well—we're crunched now! Come on deck and help set sail."

She joined me in hoisting the jib, the main, and the mizzen, then went down to the galley to prepare supper. I was left at the wheel, heading east by south toward Crete. As I steered I began to reassemble in my mind the events of the afternoon. The outcome was exactly what Ann had wanted. It was all too pat, too perfect. We had passed up the opportunity to take a Guard charter; we were sailing toward Naxos with Hosein's cargo.

Hosein! How had that hook-nosed cabron known where to find me! How had he known exactly the right way to bring me rushing back to Sabrina! If he had told me that Lumb was screwing Ann I would have made a leisurely return to make sure he had ample time to finish. If he had only told me that Lumb was beating hell out of Ann I might not have hurried. It was the thought of her being hauled off by Lumb's thugs that had sent me berserk.

Ann had known about Cleone. She must have told Hosein where to find me. Ann had insight—she knew which string to pull to bring me running! And Hosein— he'd started to cast us off before I'd had time to think. So we'd take his damned cargo up to Naxos for him. I'd been set up all right—and not for oil!

While my anger grew the wind freshened into a stiff northeaster, and by the time I was mad enough to go and try to manhandle Ann it was as much as I could do to handle Sabrina. I managed to trim the sheets and lash the helm so that she would steer herself, but by then my wrath was waning. Ann appeared in the cockpit with coffee, freshly baked biscuits, and lamb stew. After the overspiced dishes of Malta the sight and smell of familiar food made me too hungry to be angry. I accepted the supper and ate in silence. With Ann silence is often a sharper goad than abuse.

She watched me warily, as though I might belt her again, which I would have done had I not been sure her riposte would be drastic. At last she burst out, "Okay— okay! So I pulled a lousy trick. But it worked!"

"Which particular lousy trick?"

She did not specify. "I didn't want to let you get mixed up with that fascist gang! Truly David! You're not that kind of a nurd."

"So you set me up?"

"I didn't set you up!" She stared at the floor of the cockpit. "I was setting Carl up."

"Carl? You mean Lumb? You certainly were!"

"Poor guy!" Ann started to smile. "He came aboard oozing arrogance, masculinity, and threats. I had his pants off in twenty-five minutes flat!"

"And without lying once! All for three hundred liters of fuel and your own kicks."

"Those were fringe benefits. The real payoff would be the handle we'd have had on him. Seducing the wife of a captain whose ship he was supposed to be chartering! That should have got him court-martialed or something!"

I forgot caution, grabbed her by the shoulders, and shook her. "Ann—don't you realize the poor bastard was about to go overboard for you?"

She knocked my hands away. "Balls! If you hadn't barged in we'd have had full tanks by evening with Carl begging you to get me out of Malta before I publicized his rating on the stud scale."

"No way! He was ready to screw up his career just to screw you." Then I realized the full implication of her purported plan. "You were going to blackmail him and make me a fake cuckold!"

"You made me a fake wife!"

"Ann—we're supposed to be partners, but you make me look a crook or a fool wherever we go. In the valley, in Richmond, and now Malta."

"Don't you hassle me, David. Anyway, back there, you were the winner."

"Winner? I almost got myself shot."

"And I did get my face slapped. And knocked down the companionway in front of my friends. You—you were a classical husband, thirsting for blood!" She glanced at me. "David, you really looked good! Ready to shoot it out with Carl right there. You sure showed machismo." She began to smile. "Almost had a duel fought over me! How many girls can say that these days?"

"Ann—you're as archaic as Lumb! I know what's bugging you. The fact I'm skipper. Why don't we split the job? You be captain one week. Me the next."

She sat up and stared at me. Then she jerked her thumb north, toward Sicily. "Couple of nights ago you were lecturing the verandah about the Greek expedition to Syracuse. How the Athenians lost their whole fleet by rotating their admirals. A shifting command didn't work then. Won't work now."

"Okay—so you take the job over permanently."

She considered my suggestion, and was tempted. Then her basic honesty won out and she shook her head. "No, David. You're the best sailor. I'm not bad now, but you're good. Aboard Sabrina—you're the boss!" She only let me relish the compliment for a moment. "When we're ashore, it's different. I can ride better than you can—and I'm a much better shot."

Chapter Fourteen
Naxos is about six hundred miles from Malta, and the detour would increase both the length and danger of our voyage. Instead of being able to keep well to the south we would have to stand up between Crete and the Peloponnesos and then hold on among the Cyclades, the spray of islands spread across the entrance to the Aegean like the rim of a wheel. For three thousand years their major industries had been war, religion, and piracy. Tourism had taken over during the Affluence, but the Chaos had revived the classical way of life.

By sailing the gauntlet up to Naxos we were therefore accepting a calculated risk, but I agreed with Ann that if we proposed to trade in the Mediterranean we should exploit our assets. I had investigated the extra hazard involved when Hosein had made his offer, and discussed it with the bank manager. He and I had agreed it was acceptable. The pirates, like the rest of the trading community, had been reduced to sail by the fuel shortage. They had no sailing ships of Sabrina's speed, and certainly none with auxiliary engines and veralloy hulls. With reasonable searoom we could outsail them in any wind.

Our only real threat was a Dabur still being operated by a pirate consortium from somewhere on Karpathos. But Karpathos was over two hundred miles to the southeast of our course so I discounted that danger. No business-minded buccaneer would waste valuable fuel on a chance interception so far from base when there were prizes to be taken nearer home.

The farther Malta fell astern the less I regretted the loss of Cleone and the charter. The liberty of a free trader is worth some extra risk, and the Aegean was both intellectually exciting and financially rewarding. We were sailing into the waters which saw the birth of western civilization.

It was from among these islands that the Achean heroes had sailed to devastate Troy. Initially Ann shared my enthusiasm, but grew nervous as we approached Crete. When we reached the twentieth meridian and I began to lay off courses to take us around the Peloponnesos and up into the Aegean she suggested that we hold on eastward and call into Tyre first. "Perhaps we can pick up more cargo for Naxos there."

I put down my dividers and explained to her the importance of confidence in commerce. "We've undertaken an express delivery. Naxos wants those computer parts as soon as possible. They're paying a fantastic rate for fast shipment. The manager has radioed the settlement that we're on our way. If we're going to make a killing in this transportation business we've got to establish a reputation for bringing cargoes through when we say we will."

Ann hesitated, then shrugged, "Okay, skipper. It's your decision."

So we hauled up to the northwest and left Crete to starboard, entering the Aegean in the teeth of the meltemi, the strong northerly that the Mediterranean Pilot described as blowing down the narrow sea from June to October. We clawed our way close-hauled toward the island of Milos in what approached a full gale, driving our lee scuppers under despite a double-reefed main. Crouching against the wind-whipped spray I delighted in the wild weather, both from joy in Sabrina's response and from the knowledge that no pirate would leave the shelter of the islands to face it.

By sundown it had dropped to a fresh breeze, as the book had said was the way of the meltemi, and we were south of Milos with Naxos seventy miles ahead to the northeast. During the night the wind backed to the west until by morning we were sailing on a fast reach. I took a noon sight, more to practice my new skill in celestial navigation and for the sake of the log than any need to confirm our position, for Pares was clear on the port bow, we had Ios to starboard, and Naxos must be just over the horizon. The wind had dropped, the sea was empty of sails, so I went below to catch some sleep leaving Ann on watch.

When I came back on deck in midafternoon I found her standing at the for'rd end of the cockpit, leaning on the roof of the cabin, and staring ahead. Sabrina was ghosting along with her sheets trimmed and her helm lashed. We were moving through a translucent blue-green sea, and the only waves were the ripples from our bows and the splash of a dolphin playing in our wake.

It might have been the sight of Naxos, a blur on the horizon, or Ann's neat behind in her taut jeans, but I took a risk I had not taken for some time. I moved to stand beside her and I patted her bottom.

I did not get her elbow in my ribs, in fact I did not get any response at all. So after the next pat I let my hand rest on her right buttock. Still she raised no objection. I began to explore further infield. She remained bent and relaxed, her feet apart to steady herself against Sabrina's gentle roll, apparently ignoring me.

Suddenly she giggled, Ann's trumpet-call to the charge. The squadron of heavy dragoons went from walk, to trot, to canter, to full gallop and she was charging with them. We rode hell-bent for Jerusalem and finished naked, exhausted, stretched out on the cockpit cushions, nursing each other while Sabrina carried us smoothly toward our goal.

I, of course, fell asleep. I was awakened by Ann's stomach muscles tightening beneath me. "David—do you hear that? An engine?"

"Yes—by God!" I rolled off her and stood up.

Away to starboard, but coming fast, was a power boat. I cursed, pulled on my pants, and reached for my binoculars. I reported the first thing I saw. "Machine guns on her foredeck—twin machine guns!"

Ann, still naked, grabbed the glasses from me. "A Dabur Mark Four—like that of the Guard. But this one—she's got two cannon aft. And she's coming from Ios!"

A Dabur coming from Ios could only be one thing and neither of us needed to name it. "Perhaps she's only—" I suggested, moving to the engine controls.

Ann's head emerged from her sweater. "We treat her like she's hostile." She began to strap on her gun belt. When I reached for the starter she checked me. "No point yet. We can't do more than ten knots and that thing can still do twenty. Keep the engine in reserve. Maybe we can ram!"

Watching the Dabur closing I knew we had little chance of repeating the Norfolk strategy. Ann went into a whirlwind of action, loading magazines, securing hatches. I re-trimmed the sails to get the best speed we could in the light breeze, and relashed the helm to have both hands free. But if that Dabur was a pirate, and she looked more like one the closer she came, then neither our rifles nor Sabrina's speed under sail could save us. All we had left was hope and bluff, and not much of either. I had been pushed off my peak of ecstasy and was sliding into a chasm of despair. Perhaps it was because we were among these ancient islands that my religious beliefs revived. There were gods all right, and they were as the Greeks had pictured them. Capricious and cruel.

I stood upright by the lashed wheel as we crept toward Naxos, now clear ahead, only some twenty miles away. It might as well have been two hundred. Ann was kneeling in the cockpit, watching the Dabur through one of the holes we had cut in the coaming to use as gun-ports in a situation such as this. But we had never envisioned any as bad as the one we were in.

I waved a welcome as the Dabur closed. Nobody waved back but two men appeared on her foredeck, clearing the machine guns. As she came abeam the muzzles swung to bear upon us.

I had only one real hope. If they were pirates they would want to capture us, not sink us. They would want to take Sabrina and ourselves undamaged if possible. All three of us were valuable prizes, though I myself was probably worth the least on the open market.

A man with a beard was studying us through the window of the wheelhouse. I waved to him. This time a loudhailer answered me, roaring across the waters, "American boat! Heave-to!"

"Christ!" cursed Ann. "They know who we are! They've been waiting to bushwack us!"

That was a false metaphor if ever she had used one. I waved again and smiled.

"Stop or I fire!" the loudhailer bellowed in answer.

I trusted in the fact that no sensible trader would want to smash the goods he was after. I remained standing. Sometimes in a deal one can gain by playing dumb—

The machine guns hammered, stitching a line of white furrows in the calm water ahead of Sabrina's bows. I dropped to the floor of the cockpit, grabbing my rifle. Ann was already firing.

The machine guns stopped, their twin muzzles angled skyward, their two gunners crumpled on the foredeck. I let go a full magazine at the wheelhouse. The glass splintered but did not give. Armored. Our only chance was gone.

The loudhailer screamed curses in some unknown tongue, and the Dabur heeled as she veered away, her engines rammed to full ahead. She began to turn in a great arc. The tactics were obvious. She would come up at us again, but this time closed down and with her cannon firing. Our rifles would be as useless as slingshots.

"What do we do, skipper?" asked Ann.

"They want Sabrina," I dodged her question.

"They want us too. If they can get us. You know what for?"

I knew. To sell as slaves in Karpathos.

Ann gripped my arm. "David! Whichever you decide— I'm with you!"

Whichever I decided! Slavery or death! The most banal of catchphrases among our grandparents who had had no need to fear slavery. Naked reality for us now.

I did not have to say what we both knew. Good sense advised surrender while we were undamaged and worth keeping alive. Even a slave has a future. In Byzantium, in Damascus, in Cairo, slaves had risen to rule provinces and command armies. But very few. And never a woman like Ann.

I looked into her eyes. She should be making the choice, for if we surrendered she would face a future far worse than mine. I was not cursed with her pride; I had never let my ego image interfere with my welfare. I was an experienced trader, and even if I had to spend a few years in servitude I would get opportunities. With my skills, knowledge, and luck I would probably rise; I might even become a slave-trader myself, given time.

But not Ann. Her beauty and her fertility would condemn her to a role she would not endure. They would break her, so that even if she survived physically she would not survive as the Ann I loved.

"You know it's useless to fight?"

"For us—yes! But we can make it useless for them too."

She reached up and touched Sabrina's wheel. "Remember the old man, the Commodore, how he said they would not have her! When the river pirates came to try and take her?"

I did remember and the memory armed my will. "They won't. Nor you either. Nor me!" If I could have saved her by living I would have lived and if I could save her by dying I would have died. But in that I had no choice. When the Dabur closed with her cannon firing whatever happened would happen to both of us. If we did not surrender we could stay in the open cockpit and be killed or retreat to the cabin and be captured. I kissed her. "Any way to take some of the bastards with us?"

"No, thank God! I don't fancy sharing ferry space with those scum." She squeezed my arm, a romantic at the end! "I'll go and unbolt the intake flange. She'll fill slowly but in ten minutes her bilges will be too deep for them to find it. Sabrina won't become a pirate's hooker. Neither will I!" Ann disappeared below.

It would be Sabrina they wanted most. They had come after her because she would give them a new lease on life. I stared through the gun-port, watching the Dabur closing for the second time. She was too maneuverable for us to ram. Her captain, with two men dead on his foredeck would make sure that if we did not surrender we would be knocked out A couple of fragmentation shells from his cannon would do the job nicely without damaging our ship. Perhaps surrender—

Ann returned to the cockpit before my resolution was swamped by my common sense. The Dabur's cannon were swinging to bear. Armored, remote control, not even gunners for us to shoot at. Ann, on the locker beside me, licked her lips, looked at me, and smiled. She leaned over and kissed me. Her mouth was hot and moist. "David— it's all been worth it! We got where we were going. We've had three better screws than most people ever get! A short life but a damned good one! And we'll finish it fighting!" She kissed me again. "Darling—see you in Hell!"

I prayed for a share of her faith as I watched the cannon depressing, watched death, fascinated. I watched it hesitated, suddenly uncertain, watched it slew left and right. Watching the muzzles elevate, spitting fire. But not at us. At something beyond us.

Three flaming arrows screamed above our masts. The first flashed over the Dabur, the third hit the sea short of her, but the second got her amidships. She reeled and slowed, her cannon still slewing.

A green helicopter swooped over us, following its rockets, its guns pouring tracer into the staggering Dabur. A blue helicopter soared up from astern, hung unsteady in the air, then went fluttering down to splash into the ocean about a kilometer from our port quarter.

The Dabur, her cannon silent, was heeling, trying to turn, her bows already low. The green helicopter was hanging about a hundred meters abeam, methodically hammering at her with its cannon. The Dabur stopped, lay dead in the water, men tumbling out of hatchways and doors. The green helicopter changed from cannon to machine guns.

Ann broke into sudden action, pointing to where the blue helicopter was sinking. "Start the turbine! Try to save the crew! I'll stop that goddamn leak!" She disappeared below.

By the time she got back on deck the helicopter had sunk, leaving one swimming head, and we were racing toward it. The Dabur had also sunk and the green helicopter was circling the patch of foaming debris it had left, lacing the oily water with machine-gun fire.

Ana took the wheel as we came up on the swimmer. I lowered myself over Sabrina's topsides, reached down, and grabbed the long black hair. Its owner yelled, "I got life-jacket! Pass a line!" I was hauling in a girl.

I let her go, climbed back aboard for a line, and went over the side again. I slipped it under her arms, asking, "Any more?"

"No—only me." She looked up, her teeth white against her ebony skin. The snarling smile of a mountain lioness who has made her kill but not yet satisfied her hunger.

Ann left the wheel to help me pull the girl over Sabrina's rail and dump her in the cockpit. There was blood on her soaked overalls but she struggled to her feet, waving to the green chopper which, satisfied that there was nothing left worth firing at among the debris from the Dabur, had now moved to hover over us. "Sanjad—you okay?" its loudhailer called. Another girl:

Sanjad, beside us in the cockpit, inspected herself, picked up my megaphone, and shouted back, "Shell splinter in hip, Miriam. Otherwise A-okay! Drop sling and lift me off." I touched her arm and she reacted, her hand going to the automatic at her belt. Then she grinned. "Sorry! Still short-fused."

"What the hell's happening?" I asked.

"That was last powered pirate raiding straits. Now it's wasted. Caiques can come." She smiled her lioness smile. "Thanks for taking out machine guns. Or they'd have zapped Miriam too when we sprung trap. With only cannon they had to choose."

"Sprung trap?" I echoed.

"Knew those jackals would try to grab this fine ship. They heard that you come. They wait for you, hidden at Ios. You tempt them from their hole. Then we jump them. Lost a cutter, but the straits—they are clear."

So we had been the ignorant bait in a planned stakeout! I'd been through the most excruciating moral crisis of my life so this lioness could spring. They might at least have warned us that we were to act the goat I muttered, "Where the hell did you come from?"

"Naxos." She pointed at the island rising ahead, saw my expression, and added, "You safe now! We meet you. Those microcircuits okay? Good." She kissed Ann and shook my hand as a sling came swinging down from the green chopper. She strapped herself into it, calling, "See you ashore," and the winch plucked her aloft. Blood was dripping from the seat of her coveralls. I was not sorry she'd been hit in the ass.

She disappeared into the chopper and a moment later its loudhailer called, "What ship?" As though nothing had happened.

These people on Naxos were evidently formalists, so I was formal. I lifted the megaphone and shouted back, "Ketch Sabrina. Sixty-seven days out of Norfolk, Virginia. Seven days out of Malta. Bound for Naxos with shipment of computer parts. We were attacked by a Dabur Mark Four mounting twin machine guns and twin 20mm cannon at 1545 hours today two nautical miles astern of our present position." The loudhailer tried to interrupt but I yelled on. "Attack driven off and Dabur sunk with all hands. One casualty aboard. A girl got hit in the backside. Otherwise—all's well!"

The loudhailer was silent for about ten seconds. "What's your ETA?"

"Dawn tomorrow off the Cape. We have an engine."

"The pilot boat will meet you. The Cape light is long-short-short. Outlook is force one light airs from northwest through tonight. Sea calm. Visibility twenty kilometers. No other vessel within fifty kilometers. Fire flares if you need assistance. Welcome to Naxos." The green chopper rose and angled away toward the island.

"For Christ's sake—" I said, turning to Ann. Then I stopped. She was staring after it, her face a mask of moronic admiration. I jerked her back to reality. "Get the pumps started. Jump to it! If we heel there'll be bilgewater on the cargo—and that'll cost us cash!" After the kind of soul-searching experience we had just survived the best antidote to emotional overreaction was hard work at a routine task. Ann ran to couple the pumps and gear in the turbine. I blocked my own spasms of sweating tremors by finding the microdot on Naxos among the encyclopedia cards and reading it through the viewer.

After Ann had pumped out the bilges and cleaned the rifles she cooked the supper. We ate together in the cockpit with Sabrina gliding toward the mountainous island ahead. It glowed golden in the sunset, and while we ate I summarized for Ann what I had read.

"It's 428 square kilometers, and that peak, Oxia Oros, is a thousand meters, the highest in the Cyclades. It's been famous for its marble since antiquity. Praxiteles used it in the statues he carved for Athens. Before the Chaos it was the only island around here growing anything except vacation hotels. It used to produce olives, white wine, almonds, and emory. Emory's about the only cargo that wouldn't be too bulky for us. Though perhaps almonds—"

Ann broke in. "It had a computer complex!"

"I was just coming to that. According to the encyclopedia something called the UNECC was sited in Naxos by the politicians in Geneva. A pork-barrel project, I guess!"

"United Nations Educational Computer Complex," translated Ann. "That card on Computer Aided Instruction carries a whole lot about it."

"What was it supposed to do?"

"Abolish poverty through education," said Ann, speaking with the zest she showed when a subject interested her. "By 2020 they could store direct sensory stimulus on mini-disc, so they could build training simulators without having to rig the physical hardware."

"Training simulators?"

"You know! The kind of things they used to use to train aircraft pilots. They had 'em back in the last century. Things that behaved like aircraft but stayed on the ground. Hellish expensive but cheaper and safer for training pilots than real aircraft."

"Yeah. I remember reading about them."

"Well, once they could record and play back sensory stimuli direct they didn't need the hardware. Clamp on a headset in a computer terminal, switch to the right program, and get the effects direct. Sight, sound, smell, and shake."

"Fine for simulated sex!"

"Raise your consciousness a notch, Davy! Their real use was for education."

"Education in what?"

"Psychomotor skills. Quick cheap learning. They'd built up a whole library of interactive computer-simulated teaching programs just before the Chaos started. That last edition of the encyclopedia listed some of 'em."

"What kind of things? I mean—what was it all for?"

"The fast conversion of peasants into agricultural experts. To teach the narod something useful. Education was big."

"Ann—that's not education. That's—"

She cut me off. "Don't worry. The program never got off the ground. Just as well. After the Chaos started farmers needed to remember how to look after oxen rather than learn about automated tractors."

"The Affluence was crazy!" I returned to my outline of Naxian history. "Naxos was a Greek city-state but an ally of Persia. Then it switched sides and joined the Delian League. Its ships fought alongside the other Greeks at Salamis. That was the naval victory of the Greeks over the Persians."

"Was it now, Davy? And in what year?"

"480 BC. Naxos became an ally of Athens. In 471 it was conquered by Athens. Then—"

"Skip a millennia or two. Please!"

"I was building the background. In 1207 it was captured by a leader of the Fourth Crusade. A Venetian, Marco Sanudo. He—"

"I thought the Crusades were heading for Jerusalem?"

"I guess Sanudo got diverted from Syria. Like us!" I laughed. "Anyway, the Sanudo family ruled Naxos for the next three hundred years. Until the Turks captured it in 1566. The Russians took it from the Turks in 1770. The Turks regained it in 1774. In 1830—"

"David—you've got a mind like a magnet for unimportant data."

"That one wasn't unimportant for them!" I pointed toward the island ahead. "Up to 1830 the Turks were selling Greek slaves on Naxos. In 1830 the Greeks won their independence, Naxos with them. No more slavery. Not until the Chaos."

"There's none there now."

"You know a lot about Naxos already."

"I used to work them on the radio." Ann stood up. "Your historical rundown left out one item."

"What was that?"

"Naxos was the island where that bastard Theseus ditched Ariadne. After she'd saved his neck from the Minotaur."

"But that's myth—not history!"

"In history it's the myths that matter!" She went forward to bring the jib aback as we hove-to for our last night at sea.

Chapter Fifteen
Ten days later I sat on Sabrina's forehatch, drinking bourbon, staring at Naxos, and cursing everybody on it. We were moored alongside the main wharf, one of the few ships in the harbor. At the end of the wharf the mountain rose in a series of terraced vineyards, small white houses scattered among them, gleaming in the sunshine, old and beautiful. Naxos, the most fertile and the loveliest of the Cyclades, made hideous by Woman.

I was sitting alone waiting for Ann to return from the ugly blotch of the modern town across the harbor. I had been alone since we had docked, even when Ann had been aboard. I had begun to lose her from the moment we had sailed into this matriarchy.

The Naxites had welcomed us as heroes. We were the ship that had broken the blockade, that had helped to clear the passage up to the island. Because of the action we had been tricked into fighting trading caiques would soon be crowding this almost empty port. And I could, if I cared, have a privileged share in its prosperity. I wished we had never sailed into the damned place.

Financially, I had been well rewarded. The freight had been paid with a bonus for early delivery. A shipment to the Enclave on equally good terms was waiting in the warehouse across the wharf if I chose to take it. I would have already loaded and sailed had I been certain that Ann would have sailed with me.

I was not certain. I drank bourbon and stared at the ugliness of the modern town, a swamp of florid villas from the Affluence and squat buildings in the harsh functional pattern of the technocrat's architectural ideal. The style that reflected the outlook of the women who now ruled the island.

Somewhere among those buildings Ann was being seduced. Not by a man. No man could take Ann from me for more than a night. She was being seduced by an ideal and an organization. An ideal more pietistic than that of Sherando; an organization more ambitious than the Guard in Malta. The bunch of female fanatics who called themselves the Order.

There are as many myths gathering about Naxos and the Order as there are about Malta and the Guard. Laundered versions of sordid truths. During the previous ten days I had teased out some of the facts. The bourbon was helping me face the implications.

The facts are not particularly fragrant. UNECC was established on Naxos in the twenties and was operational by 2030, just when the Chaos started, the satellite terminals closed down, and the complex was cut off from its pupils. UNECC was left stranded on Naxos as Ariadne had once been. A teacher without a class: a girl without a lover.

But its director was not the kind of girl to sit and weep. For years she had been packing her teams with women. Most of the men in UNECC had drifted away when they found their female colleagues were sterile. The fading years of the Affluence was the decade when civilized men sought uncivilized women using barbarian methods. Nobody had realized that the male drive to reproduce was still so fierce among the men of the Affluence, educated in the philosophy of Presentism. That drive had surfaced in the face of Factual Futurism. Educated men with sophisticated weapons had gone out and grabbed women too uncivilized to have been sterilized by Impermease. The settlements had had a breathing space until outsiders discovered they also were oases of fertiles.

By then most men had left Naxos. The women had stayed; they had had nowhere else to go. There had been a settlement on Naxos and the women of UNECC had taken it under their wing. They had stood off the gang which called itself a government when it came to collect the fertiles, and so the Naxos Settlement had been one of the few close to civilization which had managed to survive. Chiefly because the director of UNECC had had foresight, friends in Geneva, and guns.

She had spent the last years of the Affluence stockpiling against the Chaos predicted by her computer models. After the Chaos started governments, neobarbarians, and pirates had found it safer to loot places where the loot didn't fight. On Naxos most of the fighting had been done by the women of UNECC. They were engineers and educators, and they armed and educated themselves in the style of warfare suited to the times. Scorned and deserted they had fought to preserve the Naxos Settlement with the implacable determination of a barren female defending her adopted wards. The Vengeance of the Squaws! Sanjad and Miriam were among the inheritors of that tradition. I had seen it in action when the green chopper had machine gunned the swimming survivors from the Dabur.

The women of Naxos had spawned a sexist creed with two imperatives. The first had been to rescue from slavery every reachable female, whether she wanted to be liberated or not. They had raided through the islands and up the coast while they had the fuel. In the process they had collected some useful men, and to give them credit they had treated their captives better than when the pants were on the other ass.

Their second imperative had been to preserve the "knowledge" they had worked so hard to store in their computers. After the worst anarchy had subsided they had been left with the Compcenter, its nuclear power plant, and a vast library of programs for teaching obsolete skills. They had survived on faith, fighting, stockpiles, and local produce. They had survived as a female-dominated siege society, their fertile wards had bred, and their foster children had received a unique education.

Meanwhile the Enclave, maintaining its own brand of civilization, had been holding off the neobarbarians and lecturing the surviving settlements by radio on how to keep the Light burning. As its situation improved it began to need the old skills; technicians such as meteorologists and mechanics. Naxos had the means to train them, but the Order refused to sell the packaged programs. It would only lease terminal time to trainees who came to Naxos. The Order gave loans to students and took liens against future income. In this it had followed the example of the manufacturers who had once supplied hardware for the complex, opting for a continuing return rather than an immediate capital gain. Unlike those manufacturers the Order had had no competition.

Nor, for awhile, many customers. The Enclave had maintained a few fixed-wing aircraft, and after some altercation its leaders had begun to fly their people to Naxos for specialist training. This had developed into a regular service with planes bringing up groups of young men and women, and returning with a load of freshly acquired skills, mostly imprinted on young men.

For as the process continued it acquired the characteristics of an iterative filter. Naxos was female-dominated; the boys born there tended to leave. On the other hand the enclave, while more permissive than Sherando, was still a society in which the men did the fighting and the women tended the children. Equality of the sexes remained a goal rather than a fact. The more independently minded women who came to Naxos to train wanted to stay, and if they were bright enough they were accepted. The empty seats on aircraft returning to the Enclave were filled by ambitious young men escaping the regimen of Naxian women.

The filter had been filtering for nearly twenty years and its local output was the cadre of highly trained undereducated fanatical females who now called themselves the Order. It was the Order which, in effect, ran the island with a Director-Prioress as ruler, a synod as her council, and the dozen or so pilots who flew the armed choppers as her palace guard.

During the last ten years students had started to arrive from other settlements. A reviving civilization revived the demand for the old service industries. Older people, for example, could remember the time when dentists pulled teeth without pain. Ambitious youngsters saw the rewards such skills would bring. Naxos was the only place they could learn. They came to train as dentists, technicians, skin-divers, and dozens of other trades. They returned to the settlements to practice their skills and pay their arrears of fees; their settlements made sure they did pay. Naxian credits were piling up all around the Mediterranean, but planes could bring in few of the goods the credits would buy. Our sinking of the Dabur had opened the gates of the Aegean. The island was ripe to explode into prosperity. I wished it had sunk into anarchy.

From the moment that Ann had set foot on the dock-side her manners, language, and behavior had started to improve. Sanjad and Miriam, the two pilots, had been waiting to greet us, had entertained us, and had shown us around their damned island. Ann, for the first time since I had known her, had been respectful and polite, not only to the leaders of Naxian society, but also to me. After my round of introductions I had seen all I wanted of authoritarian females and had stayed aboard Sabrina. Ann had started to spend her free time ashore. And when she was on board she retreated to the privacy of the cabin she had moved into as soon as it was emptied of cargo. Among the things I missed was the easy intimacy we had shared when we had lived together in the saloon.

She had worked hard at overhauling the engine and helping me to ready Sabrina for the voyage to the Enclave. But day by day her complaints had become less frequent and her comments less acid. At the end of a week she had become the most amenable companion one could want, and the girl I loved had disappeared behind a bland mask. I detested the change.

I also distrusted it. As her manners had improved mine had deteriorated. That morning had brought the final crisis and was my reason for killing a bottle of bourbon. She had come on deck after breakfast to say that the turbine had been overhauled, that the radio was wired up, and that Sabrina was ready for sea. She herself was now going ashore. While I was trying to think of jobs that still needed doing she had disappeared below.

Twenty minutes later she had come up the companion-way scrubbed clean, wearing a white blouse and a blue skirt. It was the first time I had seen Ann in a dress since the evening she jumped me in the valley, and I gaped. "Where the hell are you going in that rig?"

"To visit friends." She vaulted up onto the wharf.

"Cancel that! We're getting ready to sail."

She turned and looked down at me. "The cargo for the Enclave's not yet loaded."

"Shuck the cargo! I want to get out of this hive! And what about supper? Once you're with those butches God knows when you'll get back!"

My words stung as I had intended. Her lips thinned in the old manner, but she cut me with her new courtesy. "I promise I'll be aboard at sixteen hundred." Before I could repeat my order she had turned and walked off, the skirt showing the swing of her hips in a way I had never noticed before. An electrotruck was waiting at the head of the wharf, and she had disappeared toward the town while I was still shouting after her.

That was why I was sitting on the foredeck drinking whiskey in the middle of the afternoon. I knew she would return at four. I was nerving myself to handle her when she did.

She arrived dead on time, alone and driving the truck herself. As soon as I saw her face I knew I had lost her. She was as close to tears and as firm of purpose as I had ever seen her.

I began to tremble; I heard myself talking like a stranger. "You're not to visit that bunch ashore again!"

"I'm going to stay with them."

"Stay with that gang of perverts? Like hell you are! You're staying right here—aboard Sabrina—until we sail!"

"David—don't you realize? I'm not sailing with you."

I had realized it from the moment she had returned aboard. But the shock of hearing her say it made me jump up, cursing, and I spilled bourbon down my pants. "You can't leave Sabrina. She's half yours!"

Ann fetched a cloth and started to mop the whiskey off me. "Sabrina's all yours now, David. I've signed the transfer deed. I only want to keep a few things. The carbine, my pack, my revolver, my clothes—"

"And my boots, I suppose?"

"Yes. But you can have them back if you want them."

"Shuck my boots! I don't want my boots! I want you!"

She did not answer, only looked away.

"Ann, I know I've been behaving like a prize bastard ever since we got into this goddamned place."

"David—I like you better as you are now than what you were when we first met." She took a deep breath. "Much better!"

"Ann—I love you! And I need you. I can't do anything without you. I can't sail this ship. I can't face the sea. Without you—God knows what would happen to me."

She had been staring at the deck. Now she looked up. "You'll get along fine. Before, when I despised you, I couldn't have left you. Only cursed my luck to be stuck with a partner who'd fall apart if I quit. Now—" She shrugged, "I can leave you without feeling guilty. You've changed, David. Mostly for the better."

"You've changed too, Ann. Mostly for the worse! Since we've been here. What have that bunch of perverts done to you? How have they been able to alter you? In only a few days!"

"They're not perverts, David," she said patiently. "Sex isn't even in the background."

That sounded unbelievable, but I knew it was true. The central drive of the females who ran Naxos was the lust for power. They were subjects for Adler, not Freud. But they also were bound by legalisms; they went by the book. I remembered our handshake. "We're partners. We shook on it. We swore to reach the Enclave together. You can't break your word! Make a mockery of what your father taught you!"

Even invoking her father had no effect. "I never swore we'd go together to the Enclave, David. I swore I'd stick with you until we reached the eastern Mediterranean. Which we have."

"You tricky little bitch! You suckered me into a partnership. You let me think it was going to last until we reached the Enclave. You had this planned all the time!" I dropped my hands in despair. "Ann! After all we've been through together—"

"David, we're quits. I saved your life as often as you saved mine. And I'm turning all the profits over to you."

"You can't quantify a partnership like that. And we've been good partners. When the heat's on—we read each other. In the storm. In Malta too! And most of all—the day before we got here."

I was getting through to her. Her hands were shaking. "David—I shouldn't say this, because it makes it harder. But if I had to choose a man, I'd choose you. And not just because you're a wonderful lover!"

A phrase she would never have used when normal. It spooked me to hear Ann talk like a lady. "What the hell are you going to do?"

"Become a chopper pilot. They say I'm qualified for training."

She certainly had the combination of lethal skills that bloody trade seemed to require. "You'll become something like that—that Sanjad!"

"I hope so. I'm starting on the tests tomorrow. They think I'll pass."

"They? Who the hell are they?"

"The Director. The Synod."

They're a bunch of legalistic old bats!" I started to climb up onto the wharf. "Who do I talk to about the legality of a mate jumping ship part-way through a voyage? How do I get to see this Director?"

"I'll take you to see her now, David. If you wish. And if you'll first change your clothes. Hard liquor is unlawful for members of the Order, and the smell upsets them."

Chapter Sixteen
The Compcenter was among the old marble quarries in the face of the mountain. I sat in silence beside Ann as she drove the electrotruck up the steep road to its entrance. She had learned to drive the thing since our arrival in Naxos, she learned fast, she was fascinated by mechanisms. She had wanted to be an engineer, like her father, There must be some way to convince the boss-woman of this Order that Ann was too valuable to be zombied into a pilot.

She parked by the Center entrance and I walked behind her through its portico, feeling like Theseus following Ariadne toward the Labyrinth. From the day we had sailed into classical waters disquieting classical metaphors from the books I had read as a boy had persisted in floating to the surface of my mind like bubbles of swamp gas from stirred-up sludge. I followed her across a courtyard and into an entrance hall lined with glossy durapanel; synthetic marble in an island which still contained the real marble of Praxiteles. Softly lighted deep carpeted corridors led away into the mountain. All around was the hum of efficiently ordered movement. The whole place was the epitome of technocratic design.

Ann was already familiar with the maze and with the various bland women who greeted her and passed us on through offices and anterooms. We rose through a female executive hierarchy until at last we came to a nuralloy door. It opened at Ann's touch onto a large sunlit room. "Ma'am—here is Captain Randolph." She stood aside for me to enter and then was gone before I could grab from her even a thread of hope. I hesitated; then I advanced alone to meet the Minotaur.

However monstrous the Order, the Director was even more alarming. A handsome woman of the age and type that had fascinated me in my teens, she rose from her desk to greet me. Behind her was a great window looking toward Delos, and her eyes were as blue and flashing as the Aegean. Her steel-gray hair and her jumpsuit had the quality of armor, and her lips carried that enigmatic smile of authority which the Athenian sculptors put on the mouth of their goddess. She was Pallas Athene in person. I felt like an unlucky Hector, come to do battle with some blustering Greek and now faced with the virgin warrior herself.

Her voice carried the same timbre of authority and controlled power that shone through her eyes and her smile. "Good afternoon, captain. I am glad to meet you. To thank you for the service you have done our island."

I strode across the room, a doomed Trojan in a headlong attack, using the only weapons I had. "Some gratitude you're showing! What kind of a racket are you running here? I risk my neck and my ship to bring you an urgent cargo and you seduce my mate. How do you expect me to do business with an organization which has that kind of ethics?"

Her smile flickered. She had not expected an assault from the commercial angle. "Captain Randolph, I am not sure—"

"You've encouraged Ann to break an implied contract!" This Director was not used to being interrupted so I interrupted her. "Helping a mate jump ship in the middle of a voyage! Leaving me stranded with no crew and Sabrina out of action. Why? For God's sake—why?"

"Captain—do sit down!" She gestured me to a chair and sat down slowly behind her desk. After a few moments of staring at each other she leaned forward and spoke in the warm friendly voice of a sympathetic older woman inviting a young man to discuss his problems. "You and Ann have survived many dangers together. You have made a voyage worthy of the Argonauts themselves. So I can appreciate your sense of loss should Ann decide to stay with us here on Naxos. But perhaps your difficulties are not so great as they now appear. Why don't you tell me about them?"

It was a long time since I had had the chance to unload onto an older woman, but I wasn't in the Director's office to enjoy sympathetic understanding. I was here to rescue Ann from her organization. "Ann and I had a partnership agreement. If she quits she'll be breaking it."

"You agreed to be partners until you both reached the eastern Mediterranean. You have reached it. So Ann is now a free agent."

My sense for the inappropriate twitched. This woman was the effective ruler of Naxos. Yet she knew the fine print in the partnership contract of a chance-arrived brat from the boondocks. I pressed the point. "Ann was aiming for Naxos from the day we left Sherando. The little liar!"

"I doubt that she ever told you a direct lie, captain. She may have let you mislead yourself. After all—she was desperate!"

"When she was a radio operator she must have worked you a lot more often than she said. She knew the kind of setup you've got here."

"She has always hoped to join the Order. A young girl has her dreams!" Her smile invited my understanding. "She was perhaps afraid that you would ridicule them if she told you."

"She said she wanted to be an engineer. Like her old man."

"And you did laugh!"

The woman must be privy to every detail of our voyage. She wanted Ann, yet she hadn't thrown me out. So what else did she want. "Are you going to let her join your damned Order?"

"It is not as easy as that. Ann appears well qualified but her acceptance is not yet certain. There is a long period of preliminary training. She will have to pass an exhaustive series of medical and other tests."

"Ann," I said with sudden bitter fury, "is the healthiest, brightest, and most determined person I have ever met; male or female. She'll sail through your tests, and tie up your interviewers. Unless she loses points for arrogance and bad manners. But you've started to smooth those out already. In only a few days here—you've changed her!"

"Changed her? In what way?"

"The real Ann is a bad-tempered, selfish, brazen little bitch with supreme self-confidence and murderous instincts. Her language is coarse, her behavior abominable, and she has zero empathy!"

The Director smiled. "Only a man in love could describe a woman in such terms."

The blow stopped me dead. "Love Ann? What the hell has that to do with it? The point is that after spending time with your girls she's been turning into an amiable neuter. What's your secret? Drugs? Brainwashing? Or some psych program you've got stored in the comp banks to produce zombies?"

"Certainly not!" Her smile tightened and her voice sharpened. I had hit something with my probe. "Basically, Ann is not changed at all. Nor will she be!"

"She surely doesn't react the way she did. What tricks have you taught her?"

"No tricks. She has learned some useful techniques. Ann is a rapid learner. In the Order we learn how to transpose emotions. For example, one can learn to substitute sadness for fear. In a situation where one would normally become somewhat frightened one becomes a trifle sad. One cannot override life-saving or very strong emotions. But it is a useful way of reducing interpersonal frictions. For controlling one's anger in the face of discourtesy, for instance." She stared at me thoughtfully. "It is not always easy!"

"I used to trade drugs that would do that! They didn't alter emotions. They amputated them. Called 'em major tranks. Take enough and you had the emotions of a cabbage. That the kind of thing you mean?"

"No, Captain Randolph, that is not the kind of thing I mean." She sat breathing easily and smiling gently for several moments. "One merely learns to reinterpret sensory inputs. I suggest that Ann is now closer to her real self than when she appeared to be the girl you so graphically described."

"Crap! Back in Sherando if she'd been what she is now she'd still be there. As breeding stock!" My anger was becoming genuine. "What the hell have you conned her into doing to herself? Trimming her own claws? Extracting her own teeth? Making herself defenseless outside your Order?"

"I must repeat," said the Director, claws starting to show, "that these aids to good manners are superficial. When Ann needs her natural defenses they will appear immediately. There have been moments during the past week when she had to leave Sabrina to prevent herself from lacerating you!" She sat back in her chair for another session of gentle breathing and soft smiling. "You do love Ann, don't you?"

"I want her back aboard Sabrina!"

"Then give her time to discover herself. She is both a gifted and an ambitious girl."

"Ambitious? To do what? To fly a gunship over a barren island run by a bunch of sterile fanatics? To sacrifice everything that is normal and healthy for a woman?"

The Director did not respond to my insults. She only said, "The ambition that many of us have here on Naxos. The ambition to serve a noble cause, even at a heavy cost!"

Her words struck hard. I was fighting the most terrifying of forces—idealism in effective action. My mother, my father, even that old bastard of a Patriarch, they had all held to their ideals and had sacrificed everything that conflicted with them. I had thought Ann safe from such foolishness. She had seemed the epitome of hard-headed empiricism. If she was infected with the virus of idealism—

But that I would not yet accept. This island was not run by idealists; it was run by fanatical realists. Ann might be a promising recruit, but why the Director's interest in my reactions? She could hardly be interested in me for myself. But for Sabrina! She had suggested I give Ann time to discover herself. She had said that I loved Ann. I began to see the strategy behind all this talk. Sabrina was the prize, Ann was the bait, and I was the line. If the Order hung onto Ann I would be tempted into bringing cargoes back to Naxos. I shifted suddenly into the commercial mode.

"What's the deal? For Sabrina, I mean. You want to charter?"

The sudden drop from idealism to realism shocked the Director. She rose quickly from her desk and went to stand, looking out across the Aegean. I joined her. After a few moments she said, "Near Split, on the east coast of the Adriatic, is a settlement with whom we have maintained radio communication. They have access to a cocooned store of helicopter parts, spares we urgently need." She walked to a wall, touched a switch, and a map of the Adriatic appeared upon it. "As you can see Split is far beyond the range of both our aircraft and our power boats. We would like to send a team to inspect the contents of that cache. The people in the settlement know so little they cannot even describe accurately what they have got. But, like most settlements, they have an acute sense of market values even when they don't know what they're selling. You have had experience in such attitudes, I believe."

"I have." I studied the map. "Fourteen hundred kilometers by sea at least. Round the Peloponnesos and up the Adriatic. Further to avoid pirates. A job for a sailing ship—a fast sailing ship with an engine." I looked at her. "A job for Sabrina? "

"I thought you might be interested, captain."

"And Ann's the payoff?"

The Director's fury broke through and her eyes did flash. "You male animal! Do you think we trade in such things? Like your grandfather in Sherando?" She used her trick and changed her snarl to a sad smile. "Ann is a free woman. We would never bring any pressure upon her to do anything she did not wish."

I had seen something on her face during that brief flash of fury which suggested another factor behind all this. "But Ann would still be here when I came back? She would still be free to return to Sabrina if she wished?"

"Of course! I myself cannot conceive why she would want to. But she is a romantic young woman and young women make the most extraordinary selections!"

I nodded slowly, moving onto safe ground. "The charter rates would be high."

"It would be a commercial enterprise. We expect to pay well. But if you considered acting as our agent in the actual bargaining then your skills as a trader would probably leave us better off than if we attempted to make the deal ourselves. I would suggest a commission basis."

"It's worth considering. But what about a crew? I don't fancy going through the islands with the manpower I've seen lounging around Naxos."

"We would provide a crew. There would have to be pilots to evaluate the helicopter parts. We would give you a full combat team, with a Strella launcher and machine guns in case you have to fight off pirates."

I had the chance to probe for that transient clue I had seen on her face. "You expect me to take a bunch of brainwashed zombies as a crew?"

"They are not brainwashed zombies! You insufferable mercenary—" She advanced upon me, her fists clenched, and I was glad she was not wearing a gun.

I backed away, holding up my hands. "Sorry, ma'am! That was an intended insult. Just wanted to stir you up. Wanted to see something."

She stopped and glared. "Wanted to see what, you poisonous rat?"

"You people in the Order—you make quite a thing about telling the truth?"

"We do! And when I say that you remind me of—"

I cut her off. "Are you Ann's mother?"

"Ann's mother? Of course not! What makes you suggest such an extraordinary thing?"

"Then a relative? An aunt perhaps?"

She moved to stand behind her desk. "I am not fertile."

"Lady—I didn't ask about your fertility. I asked whether you are Ann's aunt."

She looked down at her desk and said nothing.

"Ma'am," I prompted. "Sometimes silence is a lie."

"What makes you think I am related to Ann? We are not at all alike."

"Normally you are not. But I have seen Ann angry so often. A few moments ago, when I made you angry, you flashed the same fire!" I moved to stand beside her. "The quality shines out. You are kin of some kind, aren't you?"

"Yes! And for goodness sake— sit down! Over there! I don't share Ann's susceptibility to your physical charm!" She sat down herself. "Ann's mother was my sister."

"The one that bolted from Sherando and left her five-year old daughter?"

"Ann's mother was needed in Naxos. She was recalled at the last possible moment. She came, in fact, by the last aircraft to leave America. Her husband's duty was in Sherando. Her mother's duty was here. It was thought that Ann would be safest with her father."

"So Ann was sacrificed! You know what she thinks of her mother? Where the hell is she?"

"Dead. She was killed in Mikonos. Fighting the pirates."

"Christ!" I said. "What kind of people are you? Ordering a mother away from her child. To fight—" I checked myself. I did not need the expression on the Director's face to tell me it was the old story with the sexes reversed. "Does Ann know?"

"Of course not! And I would not want her to. Her morale—"

I cut in. "I swear I won't tell her."

"Thank you. That is generous." The Director sighed. "You could have used it as a threat against us."

"I'm only thinking of Ann," I said. If Ann learned her mother was a heroine nothing would stop her trying to become one too. She would be even keener on becoming a heroine like her mother than an engineer like her father. That would lock her into an ambition to become a pilot. "Okay—let's talk realistic terms about this charter you're suggesting."

I admit I am a psychological cripple, forced into aberrant behavior patterns by childhood and adolescent experiences. But while psychically damaging those experiences had given me certain unique insights. For example, I know the needs of older women better than most of them do themselves. The Director, though physically and intellectually superior to any valley matron, shared the same female drives. And she had never before met a man of my age with my experience.

So the atmosphere of our business discussion gradually became less frigid. In fact, once I had agreed to charter there was not a great deal of business to discuss. The details of the contract would be worked out between the Order's management and myself. The Director and I were free to turn to the less commercial aspects of our relationship. I knew how to evoke that sympathetic understanding, that balm which a mature woman loves to smooth over the abrasions of a young man. And she revealed to me more of herself than she had intended, or indeed had exposed to any man for many years.

It was dark by the time I got back to the courtyard to find Ann had been waiting in her truck to drive me back to Sabrina. It took me a little time to change emotional gears, and we were part way down the mountain before I could try to communicate.

Chapter Seventeen
Five days later I stood on Sabrina's foredeck explaining the mysteries of her spinnaker to my neophyte crew. We were due to sail that morning and I had given up hope of seeing Ann before I left. Her final words had been to the effect that she never wanted to see me again.

That had been at the end of our last meeting, while she was driving me back to Sabrina after I had reached agreement with her Director. As we went down the mountain I had appealed to her sense of loyalty, decency, and honor. At first she had met my pleas with a sad determination. She had broken no promises, I was the only man she would ever love, but she was called to a higher vocation. The Light had shone upon her. She knew where her real duty lay. She had to join the Order. She had to save the world—or some other similar absurdity.

I had suppressed my own emotions and matched her calmness. I had told her that she was being conned into joining a bunch of lesbian butches, female editions of the Elders she had pretended to despise; bigoted fanatical perverts. That had quickened her breathing and upset her driving. Perversion was anathema to the Order. Nor were pilots sexless. They only sublimated their sex drives during their periods of duty; they were trained to redirect the energy released toward a higher end than amusing some man. But after she was qualified, between her periods of service, she would certainly find some man to amuse her.

Her calm had finally cracked when I had said that she was deserting me the way her mother had deserted her father. It was then that she had stopped the electrotruck and told me to get back to Sabrina on my own two feet. When she did come looking for a man it would certainly not be me. I had walked back to my ship and finished off the bottle of bourbon.

The next day two members of the Synod arrived with the Order's offer to charter, and I was too occupied with negotiating optimum terms to think much about Ann. They were a hard-nosed pair of females, but I knew their Order's need for those chopper spares and I remembered Lumb's warning of Sabrina's transient value. Soon larger steam and diesel powered vessels would be back at sea and this brief revival of the sailing ship would be over. The very cargo that Sabrina would be collecting would start to undermine her unique economic value. I had to include in the terms of the charter a clause to offset the fact that her sails were a nonrenewable resource and I had my model in the type of contract which the petroleum corporations had negotiated in the days before the Chaos. I finally got a five-year charter at an indexed rate plus a commission as an official purchasing agent for the Order.

None of this was easy, and the fact that the Synod went into session three times before we closed made me confident that they intended to stand by the agreement they finally signed. People who mean to cheat do not argue terms so tenaciously. After it was over I was sure I had got the best possible deal for Sabrina and myself.

It had included an undertaking by the Order to provide a combat team and a crew. The combat team I accepted as a necessity, but I certainly did not want to undertake a three thousand kilometer voyage with a bunch of neutered girls as deckhands. I searched the island for a male crew. I couldn't find even one man willing to sail as mate.

None of the endogenous males on Naxos had any intention of risking their lives sailing up the Adriatic. As I have mentioned any male Naxite with guts left the island as soon as he was old enough to go. The residue were drones. Nor could I persuade the captains of the three caiques in the harbor to release any of their men, and the few free sailors hanging around the waterfront were not the kind I would want aboard Sabrina if we encountered pirates. In the end I had to ask the Order for a crew as well as an armed guard.

The business acumen of the Synod was shown when they pointed out that the clause in our agreement did not specify the crew and guard must be different persons. They sent me two pilots to fill both roles. Ruth, the older one, who looked about twenty, said they had both had a crash course in seamanship from the computer. "It didn't say much about sailboats," she admitted. But they brought with them a Strella and a machine gun so Sabrina now had more fire power than most pirates would face. And they were a willing pair; hard-working and pleasant with the flat affect that training in the techniques of emotional conversion seemed to produce; the blandness that Ann herself had started to show.

I had been hoping that she would at least turn up to see me sail and wish me good luck. But although I had to spend most of the morning explaining the handling of the spinnaker to my crew, for I had never actually seen such a sail hoisted, there was still no sign of her by noon. I could waste no more daylight waiting. I told the girls to bend on the working genoa and be ready to get under way.

I had just started the turbine when an electrotruck stopped at the end of the wharf and Ann jumped out, pulling her pack and her carbine after her. Even from a hundred meters I could see that she was reverting. She came toward Sabrina walking with her old slouch, her pack slung from one shoulder, her carbine from the other, her face beautified by her sullen scowl. I stopped the turbine and clambered up onto the wharf to greet her.

She did not greet me. She pushed past me without a word, jumped into the cockpit, threw her pack down the companionway, and stowed her carbine in the port locker. Then she straightened up and stared at Ruth and Karen on the foredeck, "What the hell are they doing?"

"Ann—are you coming back?" I tried to embrace her.

"I'm the mate again, skipper. I'm sailing with you. God help me!" She pushed me off. "Do we have to take that pair?"

"Ruth's the senior pilot. She's got to come to check the parts in that cache. But she's working her passage."

Ann said something unusually coarse.

"Karen—she's a chopper pilot too!"

Ann showed no evident admiration. "What are they supposed to do now? Stand and gape?"

"They're rigging the jenny."

Ann addressed them directly. "Then why the hell aren't you getting on with it?"

Karen rumbled with the sail. Ruth said softly, "We don't know which way is up."

"Oh, Christ!" Ann vaulted onto the deck, and began to bully the girls into sorting out the halyards and the sheets. I stood in the cockpit listening with joy to the sound of her voice. When the jenny was ready for hoisting and she brought them aft to rig the mizzen I caught her arm.

"Ann—I'm glad to have you back!"

"That's more than I am, Buster. I'm not here because I want to be. I want to join the Order!"

I really did not care what she wanted. It was enough that she was aboard Sabrina again. "And they've turned you down?"

"They said I'm the best qualified applicant they've ever had!"

"So why aren't you in?"

"Application suspended. For at least three years." There were tears starting into her gray eyes and her face was crumpling.

I had seen Ann's eyes overflow before, but I had never seen her cry. The sight made my guts cramp. "But why, Ann? Why?"

"Because of you—you rat! I have to come back and sail with you first. Before they'll let me into their goddamned Order!"

I had hoped for some better reason than the Synod's concern about the safety of Sabrina, and I found I could not withstand Ann's grief. "When I spoke to the Director, she insisted that you were a free agent. I didn't think I'd persuaded her to return you against your will." I moved to climb up onto the wharf. "I can take this ship, alone, to hell and back if I have to! I'll go and see her now. I'll have your orders changed."

"I'm not here because of your maudlin complaints. Nor because of your smooth tongue, Davy boy. And they don't doubt your competence."

"Then why—for God's sake?"

"The medical exam! Damn their blood tests!" Her lips quivered. "They found I'm pregnant!"

I stared at Ann. She scowled at me. She turned away. I tried to embrace her. She drove her elbow into my stomach. I managed to hang on, and presently I asked, "When?"

"Just before our scrap with the Dabur."

"Well—that time you weren't terrified or drunk!"

"I was crazy!"

I sat down on a locker. "What's the setup?"

"They think this brat in my belly needs a father's protection and a mother's love!" She choked. "The barren old hens! God—the crap they've fed me about duty and responsibility. Kids are precious. First three years vital. All that bull! They're bigger humbugs than the Elders." Now she was frankly weeping, her expression a compound of misery and fury.

"But they'll take you in three years?"

"If I'm a good girl—then they'll let me learn to fly one of their goddamn choppers. If I foul up this motherhood thing it means I'm LMF."

"LMF—what the hell's that?"

"Lack of moral fiber! Those crones are archaic! They went into shock when I mentioned abortion. And the Director—the mealymouthed old crow—when I suggested parking the brat she said—she said she was going to check with you on how well I do." I began to laugh, and Ann yelled, "As a mother, you oaf! She's going to take your word. You—a professional liar!"

"I wasn't lying when I told her I loved you."

Ann swore and began to shout at the girls who were on the foredeck snugging down the anchor. I went below to lay off our course on the chart and leave Ann to come to terms with our crew. The information that I was liable to become a father was minor compared to the fact that I had Ann back. Allowing a pregnant girl to go on a dangerous voyage did not seem ideal for her infant. On the other hand caging a tigress up in Naxos with her emotional conversion techniques shot might be even more destructive. I listened to her bawling out Ruth. Pregnant and frustrated she was going to take it out on all of us. She had the right disposition for the worst type of mate.

Presently she appeared at the head of the companion-way. "Skipper—ship's ready for sea if you are!"

I was even more anxious to leave Naxos than I had been to leave Malta. We motored across the calm waters of the harbor, with various people ashore waving us goodbye and wishing us good luck. Ruth handed me the binoculars and pointed up the mountainside to the Compcenter entrance. I could just distinguish the figure of the Director, standing upright on the portico, her hand raised as though in blessing. She probably couldn't see me but I waved back. She was the type of woman for whom I sometimes feel a real need and I would enjoy giving her a report of our voyage.

A green chopper flew over us, dipping low, as we left the harbor. Sanjad's amplified voice boomed down. "Ketch Sabrina. The Light be with you. Fair winds and good weather!" I waved an acknowledgement. Ann, at the wheel, did not even look up.

We began to knife through the swell as we cleared the point. I took the helm and Ann went to get the jenny, the main, and the mizzen hoisted and drawing. Sabrina heeled under a fresh wind from the north, and I steered east-northeast to clear the tip of Naxos. The three girls came scrambling back into the cockpit, and I sent them below to get into heavy-weather gear. White wind-whipped spray was starting to drive over our decks as we came out from under the shelter of Mikonos.

Ann joined me, zipping up her blue waterproof coveralls. I said, "Those two will be okay when they get their sealegs."

"They're fliers. Doubt they've ever been aboard a boat before except as passengers. Well—they're not passengers this trip!"

"They'll learn fast."

"That Ruth's only a Fourth. And Karen—she's just a novice." Ann snorted. "The Synod must be crazy to send kids like them on a mission like this!"

"They can shoot. I watched them practice."

"We'll see what they're like when the shit starts to fly!" The two girls were coming on deck, fumbling with the unfamiliar fastenings on their waterproofs. "Which of you's on galley duty today?" They looked blank, so Ann pointed at Ruth. "Then you are. I missed breakfast. Fix some ham and eggs for the skipper and me. And fry some bread in the ham fat!"

Sabrina was beginning to lift and ascend in the swell, leaning on the wind funneling down the Aegean. Ruth paled but turned toward the companionway.

"Stow it, Ann!" She was carrying brutality too far. "Here, you take the wheel. I'll fix your breakfast."

"Cold oatmeal? Thank you, skipper. That I'll finesse!"

I caught Ruth as she slipped on the heeling deck. "You two—go below and turn in. You'll be fine in a few hours. I'll bring you some cyclizine."

Ann began to grumble that I hadn't given her any seasick pills. Why couldn't these aviators sweat it out, like she'd had to? I escaped to the galley, put on coffee, and went to look after my crew.

They were lying rigid on their bunks, attempting I suppose to suppress the symptoms of motion sickness by emotional conversion. They were not succeeding and were quite human in their gratitude for my concern and my pills. I spent a few minutes comforting each of them in turn. Command brings its responsibilities and rank has its privileges. Then I went back to the galley, spread honey on rolls, poured a mug of coffee, and started up the companionway.

I stopped with my head in the hatchway. Ann at the wheel was the loveliest sight I have ever seen. Her golden hair was lifting in the wind, her blue overalls were glistening from the flying spray. She was squinting against the brilliant sunshine, crinkling her gray eyes as she looked from the compass, to the sails, to sea. Feet astride on the canting deck she was balancing herself against Sabrina's movements and balancing Sabrina against the sea and the wind. She was meeting each surge and hesitation of our ship with a sensitive sureness, the wheel turning to and fro under her hands. But it was her mouth which made her so beautiful. Her lips were parted, curving into a smile of joy. The smile that turns a woman into a goddess.

She noticed me and frowned. But I had seen enough to know that the Order could never tempt Ann away from me. I edged my way aft and gave her the mug. She took it with the flicker of a smile and Sabrina stumbled slightly as she steered with one hand. Then she started to munch on a honeyed roll.

I wedged myself beside her so I did not have to shout above the wind, and presently I said, "Ann—we're trapped! Both of us. We're condemned. We have no retreat!"

"What do you mean?" She stopped chewing. "More of your mystical bull?"

"We're trapped by the sea. You and I. A foul-tempered radio operator and a second-rate pill-peddler. We're stuck! We'll never be happy anywhere else. Not in a chopper. Not on a horse!"

"Speak for yourself, Skipper. I've got other ambitions."

"Ann—this offspring of ours. Have you thought of the worst-case outcome? Your manners and my morals?"

"Skip the crap, David!" But I had drawn a smile.

"Ferocity of a bobcat! Morals of a jackrabbit! Manners of a groundhog! Between us we're liable to produce something the world's been spared since Timur the Lame. And if it's a girl—"

Ann giggled. I squeezed her. Sabrina heeled.

Presently she said, "Skipper—how the hell can I hold a course with you pawing me?"

"Darling—we've got magnificent times ahead. Trading, sailing, loving, fighting! What more can a healthy young mother ask for?"

She laughed out loud. "David, enjoy your fantasies. All I can see is three years at hard labor keeping this ship, and you, and our little bastard out of trouble!"

"Three years, Ann! That's a lifetime." My arm was around her waist and even through her wet gear I could feel her body was ignoring any attempts at emotional conversion she might be making.

After a few minutes the jib thundered as Sabrina started to luff. Ann shouldered me away, spun the wheel, and shouted, "Of course you're the skipper, David. And I don't want to get above my station! But if you could trim the jenny halfway decently we might get another knot out of this scow!"

I slid across the cockpit to the lee jib winch. For the first time in my entire adult life I was completely happy. We were standing across the Aegean, racing down one of the oldest trade routes in the world. I was sailing with a full cargo, a fair wind, and a beautiful ship. And with me were my wife and child.