The Nautical Chart Part 19

"I mean that they're different."

"They aren't different. They're just survivors." That stopped Coy. He was surprised by how perceptive the comment was.

"Palermo said that, too."

Then he pointed at El Piloto with the hand holding the bottle, but said nothing. El Piloto leaned forward and took the bottle. "Too many books."

After that he drank a last swallow, corked the bottle, and set it on the deck. Now he looked at Coy, waiting for him to stop laughing.

"What's she defending against?" he asked. Coy raised his hands, evasive. How the h.e.l.l, the gesture said, can I explain?

"She's fighting," he said, "for a little girl she knew a long time ago. A sheltered kid, a dreamer, who won swimming contests.

Who grew up happy until she stopped being happy and learned that everyone dies alone_____ Now she's refusing to let her disappear."

'And what's your part in this?"

"I get a hard-on like anyone else, Piloto."

"You lie. There are answers for that, nothing to do with her."

He's right, Coy told himself. When all's said and done I've had hard-ons before, and I never went around acting like a fool. No more than usual, at least.

"Maybe it's like ships pa.s.sing in the night," he said. "Have you ever noticed? You're at the rail and a ship you know nothing about pa.s.ses by. No name, flag, or idea where she's headed. All you see is lights, and you think probably someone's leaning on the rail who's seeing your lights."

'And what color are the lights you see?"

"What does the color..." Coy shrugged his shoulders, annoyed. "How do I know? Red. White."

'If they're red, the other ship has right-of-way. Hard to starboard."

"I'm speaking in metaphors, Piloto. Don't you get it?"

El Piloto didn't say whether he did or didn't. His silence was eloquent, and not very favorable to metaphors of ships, nights, or anything else. Don't screw up your compa.s.s, his unspoken words said. It's her p.u.s.s.y. Period. Sooner or later everything leads back there. The reason is your business, what makes me uneasy are the consequences.

"So what are you going to do?" he asked finally.

"Do?" Coy paused. "No idea. Be here, I suppose. Keep an eye on her."

"Well, you remember the old saying: With women and wind, act with caution."

After that El Piloto sank into another unsociable silence. His eyes were on the lights in the oily film.

"Shame about your ship," he added after a long silence. "Everything was going fine there. But on land it's nothing but problems."

"I'm in love with her."

El Piloto was standing now. He studied the sky, seeking a hint of what the weather would bring the next day.

"There are women," he said as if he hadn't heard anything, "who have strange ideas in their heads, like others have gonorrhea. And what they do is come along and give it to you."

He had bent down to pick up the bottle, and when he stood up the lights of the city gleamed in his eyes.

"So after all," he said, "maybe it isn't your fault."

With the wrinkles making shadows on his face, and his short gray hair turned to ash in the dark, he resembled a weary Ulysses, indifferent to sirens and harpies, to p.u.b.escent girls on beckoning beaches, to looks hazy with alcohol, "come" or "go," scornful or indifferent. Suddenly Coy envied him with all his heart. At his age it wasn't likely that a woman would cost him his life or his liberty.

XII.

Southwest Quarter to South This road differs from those on dry land in three ways. The one on land is firm, this unstable. The one on land is quiet, this moving. The one on land is marked, the one on the sea, unknown.

MARTIN CORTES, CORTES, Breve compendiode la esfera Breve compendiode la esfera At dawn on the fourth day, the wind that had been blowing gently from the west began to veer to the south. Uneasy, Coy checked the oscillation of the anemometer and then the sky and the sea. It was a conventional anticyclonic day at the beginning of summer. Everything was calm in appearance- the water riffled, the sky blue with a few c.u.mulus clouds-but he could see medium and high cirrus moving in the distance. And the barometer had dropped three millibars in two hours. After he'd woken up and had a quick dip in the cold blue water, he listened to the weather dispatch, noting in the log on the chart table the formation of a pyramidal center of low pressure moving across the north of Africa, not too far from a stationary high of 1,012 over the Balearic Isles. If the isobars of those two came too close together, the winds would blow strong out to sea, and the Carpanta Carpanta would have to seek shelter in port and postpone the search. would have to seek shelter in port and postpone the search.

He disconnected the automatic pilot, took the wheel, and brought the boat around a hundred and eighty degrees. The bow was again pointed north, toward the sunlit coast beneath the dark shoulder of the peak of Las Viboras. They were beginning to sweep sector number 43 on the search chart. That meant the Pathfinder had already covered more than half the area, with no result. The positive aspect of this was that they had eliminated the deepest areas, where dives would have been complicated and difficult. Coy looked toward Punta Percheles on the port beam. A fishing boat was casting nets so close to land that it looked ready to sc.r.a.pe the sh.e.l.ls off the beach. He calculated course and distance, and concluded that they would not come too close, although the erratic behavior of fishing boats macle them unpredictable. Then he glanced skyward again, connected the automatic pilot, and went below to the c.o.c.kpit, where the monotonous drone of the motor beneath the ladder was more noticeable.

"Track forty-three," he said. "Heading north."

The sun was at the meridian, and it was hot despite the open portholes. Sitting at the chart table, near the echo sounder, the radar, and the repeater of the positioning system of the GPS satellite, Tanger was watching the screen like an overzealous student, jotting down lat.i.tude and longitude every time the surface of the ocean floor showed any irregularity. Coy looked at the depth indicator and speed: 118 feet, 2.2 knots. As the Carpanta Carpanta followed the course set on the automatic pilot, the precise profile of the bottom was modified on the Pathfinder screen. They had taken enough turns there by now to be able to identify, without difficulty, the different shades the instrument a.s.signed to features on the floor. Soft orange was sand and mud, dark orange was seaweed, and pale red indicated loose rock and shingle. Banks of fishes were reddish brown, shutting smudges with green streaks and blue borders, and important irregularities-large individual rocks, say, and the metal remains of an old sunken fishing boat already on the charts-were imaged as jagged hills of intense red. followed the course set on the automatic pilot, the precise profile of the bottom was modified on the Pathfinder screen. They had taken enough turns there by now to be able to identify, without difficulty, the different shades the instrument a.s.signed to features on the floor. Soft orange was sand and mud, dark orange was seaweed, and pale red indicated loose rock and shingle. Banks of fishes were reddish brown, shutting smudges with green streaks and blue borders, and important irregularities-large individual rocks, say, and the metal remains of an old sunken fishing boat already on the charts-were imaged as jagged hills of intense red.

"Nothing," she said.

Sand and seaweed, the screen said. The echo had turned blood red on only two occasions, tracing significant crests on the underwater relief, hard echoes at respective depths of 158 and 140 feet. They weren't capable of interrupting the run, so they noted the positions and returned very early the next morning, after spending the night, as usual, anch.o.r.ed between Punta Negra and Cueva de los Lobos. Coy was suffering the last effects of a cold, a minor souvenir of his night plunge, but they were enough to make it impossible for him to compensate for pressure on eardrums and sinuses. So it was El Piloto who got into his mended black neo-prene wetsuit and jumped into the water, a compressed air tank on his back, knife on his right calf, and a hundred-yard line tied to a bowline at the waist of his self-inflating jacket. Coy stayed above, swimming at the surface with fins, snorkel, and mask, watching the trail of bubbles ascending from the old Snark Silver III demand regulator with dual rubber hoses that El Piloto still insisted on using because he didn't trust modern plastic. The old equipment, he said, never let you down. The echoes, he informed them when he emerged, were caused by an enormous rock that held tatters of tangled nets, and by three huge metal drums crusted with rust and algae. On one of them you could still read the word "Campsa."

Over Tanger's shoulder, Coy looked at the flat bottom the sounder was imaging. Her eyes never left the liquid-crystal screen. A silver pencil was in her hand, the squared chart before her. Her freckled arms were exposed below the short sleeves of the white cotton T-shirt, her back wet with sweat. The rolling of the boat was rhythmically swinging the damp tips of her hair, which was kept in place with a kerchief tied around her forehead. She was wearing khaki shorts, and her legs were crossed beneath the table. Sitting at the rear of the c.o.c.kpit, beside a porthole that cast an oscillating circle of sun on his short gray hair, El Piloto was tying a hook onto his fishing line, a crested lure he had just fashioned from a bit of old halyard. From time to time he looked up at them from his labors.

"We may get a change in the weather," Coy said.

Without taking her eyes from the screen, Tanger asked if that meant they would have to interrupt the search. Coy answered maybe. If a wind came up, or heavy seas, the sounder would give false echoes, and besides, they would be very uncomfortable bobbing around out here. In that case, the best thing would be to sit it out in Aguilas or Mazarron. Or go back to Cartagena.

"Cartagena is twenty-five miles away," she said. "I'd rather stay around here."

She was still focused on the Pathfinder and the chart. Although they took turns at the echo sounder, she was the one who spent the most time watching the curves and colors taking shape on the screen, hanging on until her eyes were bloodshot and she had to yield her post. When the slight swell became a little stronger, she would get up, looking pale, her hair stuck to her face with sweat, visible signs that the rolling and the constant roar of the diesel motor were affecting her more than she admitted. But she never said anything, or complained. She forced herself to eat everything, out of discipline, and they would see her disappear toward the head, where she splashed water on her face before lying down a while in her cabin. Her package of Dramamine, Coy observed, was close to empty. Sometimes when they'd finished a series of sweeps, or when they were sick of the heat and continual noise, they stopped the boat and she dived into the sea from the stem, swimming straight out with a slow, steady crawl. She swam with the correct rhythm and breathing, not splashing unnecessarily with her kick, the palms of her hands cutting like knives with every stroke. Occasionally Coy dove in to swim with her, but she managed to keep her distance, in a way that was casual only in appearance. Sometimes he watched her dive between two waves, her arms pulling strongly, her hair undulating past schools of fish that parted as she pa.s.sed. She swam in a flattering black one-piece suit with narrow straps, cut very low to reveal a V of coppery back. She had long slim legs, maybe a little thin-too tall and skinny, El Piloto had judged. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were not large, but they were as arrogant as Tanger herself. When she took off her bathing suit in her cabin, her body still wet, her nipples made damp circles on her T-shirt, leaving a residue of salt when they dried. At last Coy discovered what was hanging on the chain she wore around her neck-a steel tag with her name, national identification number, and blood type, O negative. A soldier's ID.

The echo sounder registered a change in the reddish tone of the floor, and Tanger bent closer to note the lat.i.tude and longitude. But it was a false alarm. She leaned back again in her chair at the chart table, pencil gripped in fingers with ragged nails that she was now chewing constantly. She still had the serious, focused expression of a model student that Coy so enjoyed watching. Often, seeing how absorbed she was in her notepad, the chart, or the screen, he tried to imagine her with blond pigtails, in a school uniform and white anklets. He was sure that before she used to hide in the bathroom to smoke cigarettes, before she became insolent to the nuns, before she dreamed of Red Rackham's treasure, of nautical charts and corsair booty, someone had tagged her as an exemplary little girl. It wasn't difficult to imagine her with a stubborn expression reciting amo-amas-amat, amo-amas-amat, H2S0>4, "In a village of La Mancha," and all the rest. And with flowers for the Virgin. H2S0>4, "In a village of La Mancha," and all the rest. And with flowers for the Virgin.

He leaned against the table at her side to look at the charted squares of the search area. On the bulkhead the radio was sputtering on low volume, tuned to receive and transmit. A naval frigate was requesting dock hands to take their mooring line, but no one was appearing. From time to time, a Ukrainian sailor or Moroccan fisherman would reel off long paragraphs in his tongue. The master of a fishing boat was complaining that a steamer had cut his trawl lines. A patrol of Guardia Civil was blocked because of damage to a bridge in port Tomas Maestre.

"We may lose two or three days," Coy said. "But we have time to spare."

Tanger wrote something and then stopped, the pencil hovering over the chart.

"We don't have time to spare. We'll need every available hour."

Her tone was severe, almost reproachful, and once again Coy felt annoyed. The weather, he thought, doesn't give a s.h.i.t about your available hours.

"If we get a strong wind, we won't be able to work," he explained. "The seas will be choppy and the echo sounder won't work efficiently."

He saw her open her mouth to reply, and then bite her lips. Now the pencil was drumming on the chart. On the bulkhead, next to the barometer, two clocks marked local time and Greenwich time. She sat staring at them, and then checked the stainless-steel watch on her right wrist.

"When will this happen?'

Coy paused.

"Can't be sure... Maybe tonight. Or tomorrow."

"Then for the moment, we'll keep going here."

Again she concentrated on the screen of the Pathfinder, considering the matter settled. Coy looked up to meet El Piloto's eyes. You do it, said the lead-gray eyes. You make the decision. There was more than a little needling in that look, and Coy fled from it, excusing himself to go topside. There he studied the sky on the horizon, where high clouds unraveled into strings like white mares' tails. I hope to G.o.d, he thought, that it will get really bad, that we'll have fierce waves and a murderous easterly, and have to haul a.s.s out of here. Then she'll run out of Dramamine, and I will get to see her hanging over the side, puking her guts out. The b.i.t.c.h.

His hopes were fulfilled, at least in part. Tanger didn't run out of Dramamine, but the next day the sun shone briefly amid a halo of reddish clouds that later turned dark and gray, and the wind veered to the southeast, kicking up whitecaps. By noon the sea was getting rough. The pressure had dropped another five millibars and the anemometer was indicating force 6. At that same hour, after the last position had been carefully noted on the squared zone of track 56, the Carpanta Carpanta was sailing toward Aguilas with a reef in the mainsail and another in the Genoa, both hauled to port. was sailing toward Aguilas with a reef in the mainsail and another in the Genoa, both hauled to port.

Coy had disconnected the automatic pilot and was steering manually, legs spread to counteract the list, feeling in the spokes of the wheel the tug of the rudder in the water and the force of the wind in the sails, along with the powerful pitching of the boat as she plowed the waves. They sailed southwest quarter to south on the compa.s.s, and with the large rock at Cabo Cope on the gray horizon. On the log, the anemometer showed 22 to 24 knots true wind. Sometimes the bow breasted a crest and spray showered as far as the c.o.c.kpit, covering the windshield with spindrift. The air smelled of salt and sea, and the whistling in the rigging rose octave by octave, making the halyards chime against the mast with every plunge of the boat.

It was obvious that Tanger didn't need the Dramamine. She was sitting on the coaming of the c.o.c.kpit, legs stretched toward the windward side, wearing the red foul-weather pants El Piloto had lent her. No one could doubt that she was enjoying the sail. To Coy's surprise, she hadn't protested too much when the wind forced them to interrupt the search. It seemed as if she had adapted better to the ways of the sea in recent days, accepting the fatalism inherent in the changing fate of the sailor. At sea, what couldn't be couldn't be; or was, in fact, impossible. Sitting there now-oversize pants, wide suspenders, T-shirt, kerchief knotted around her forehead, bare feet-she looked different, and it was hard for Coy to take his eyes off her and pay attention to the course and sails. Leaning against the c.o.c.kpit, El Piloto was calmly smoking. From time to time, when he took his eyes off Tanger, Coy found his friend's eyes on him. What do you want me to say, he answered in silence. Things are what they are, not what you want them to be.

The anemometer soon showed 25 to 29 knots, and gusts hardened the feel of the wheel in Coy's hands. Force 7. That was strong, but not unmanageable. The Carpanta Carpanta had weathered storms of force 9, with fierce winds at 46 knots howling in the rigging and short, quick, twenty-foot waves. Like that time when he and El Piloto had to run twenty miles with a following sea and under bare poles after the storm jib had split. Even with the motor, they were falling off and only just pa.s.sed into Cartagena inlet, sixteen feet from the rocks. Once they were tied up, El Piloto knelt down and very seriously kissed the ground. Compared with that, 29 knots wasn't much. But when Coy looked up at the gray sky above the swinging mast, he saw that high cirrus clouds were advancing from the left of the wind blowing at sea level, and that to the east a line of dark, threatening-looking clouds was beginning to form, low and solid. That's where the wind would be coming from soon. Better to keep an eye on it, he concluded. had weathered storms of force 9, with fierce winds at 46 knots howling in the rigging and short, quick, twenty-foot waves. Like that time when he and El Piloto had to run twenty miles with a following sea and under bare poles after the storm jib had split. Even with the motor, they were falling off and only just pa.s.sed into Cartagena inlet, sixteen feet from the rocks. Once they were tied up, El Piloto knelt down and very seriously kissed the ground. Compared with that, 29 knots wasn't much. But when Coy looked up at the gray sky above the swinging mast, he saw that high cirrus clouds were advancing from the left of the wind blowing at sea level, and that to the east a line of dark, threatening-looking clouds was beginning to form, low and solid. That's where the wind would be coming from soon. Better to keep an eye on it, he concluded.

"I'm taking in the second reef, Piloto."

As Coy said that his friend was looking at the mainsail, thinking the same thing. But on board El Piloto was the skipper, and that kind of decision was up to him. So Coy waited until he saw him nod, flick his cigarette leeward, and stand. They started the motor to head the bow into the sea and wind, with the jib fluttering, a third of its canvas rolled in the stay. Tanger took the wheel, holding the course, and while El Piloto caught the boom in the center and then eased off the main halyard, letting it drop, flapping, to the second reef, Coy stuffed some gaskets in his pockets, held another in his teeth, and went to the base of the mast, trying in the violent pitching to keep from being sent into the sea a second time in one week Bracing himself with his knees against the windshield of the c.o.c.kpit, he fit the eyelet of the second reef onto the weather hook. Then when El Piloto held taut again, Coy moved toward the stern, adjusting as he went to the movements of the boat, and threaded a gasket in each eyelet of the sail, knotting them beneath the boom to anchor the surplus. At that moment a heavy spray broke over the deck, soaking his back, and Coy leaped into the c.o.c.kpit beside Tanger. Their bodies collided in the rolling, and to keep from falling he had to catch himself on the wheel, arms around Tanger, clasping her in an involuntary embrace.

"You can steer," he said. "Gradually let it fall to leeward."

El Piloto, coiling the main halyard, watched them, amused. She turned the spokes of the wheel to starboard, and the sails stopped flapping. A little before the Carpanta Carpanta picked up speed, the sea shook her abeam, whipping the mast, and making Tanger stagger within the circle of Coy s arms and chest, as he helped her effect the exact turn of the wheel. Finally the rock of Cabo Cope, standing gray among the low clouds, was again off the starboard bow, beneath the swollen Genoa, and the needle of the log stabilized at five knots. A spray stronger than the previous ones broke over them, soaking their faces, hands, and clothing. Coy saw that the cold water had made Tanger's hair stand up on her neck and bare arms, and when she turned to face him, closer than they had ever been, she was smiling in a strange way, very happy and very sweet, as if for some reason she owed that moment to him. The shower of salt.w.a.ter had multiplied to infinity the specks on her face, and her lips opened, as if she were going to speak words that certain men wait centuries to hear. picked up speed, the sea shook her abeam, whipping the mast, and making Tanger stagger within the circle of Coy s arms and chest, as he helped her effect the exact turn of the wheel. Finally the rock of Cabo Cope, standing gray among the low clouds, was again off the starboard bow, beneath the swollen Genoa, and the needle of the log stabilized at five knots. A spray stronger than the previous ones broke over them, soaking their faces, hands, and clothing. Coy saw that the cold water had made Tanger's hair stand up on her neck and bare arms, and when she turned to face him, closer than they had ever been, she was smiling in a strange way, very happy and very sweet, as if for some reason she owed that moment to him. The shower of salt.w.a.ter had multiplied to infinity the specks on her face, and her lips opened, as if she were going to speak words that certain men wait centuries to hear.

ON the terrace of the restaurant, a two-story open-air structure of wood, cane, plaster, and palm leaves rising high over the beach, the orchestra was playing Brazilian music. Two young men and a girl were doing a good imitation of Vinicius de Moraes, Toquinho, and Maria Bethania. As they sang, some of the customers sitting at the nearest tables were swaying in their chairs to the beat of the tune. The girl, a rather pretty mulatta with large eyes and an African mouth, was rhythmically drumming the bongos and gazing into the eyes of the smiling and bearded guitarist, as she sang the terrace of the restaurant, a two-story open-air structure of wood, cane, plaster, and palm leaves rising high over the beach, the orchestra was playing Brazilian music. Two young men and a girl were doing a good imitation of Vinicius de Moraes, Toquinho, and Maria Bethania. As they sang, some of the customers sitting at the nearest tables were swaying in their chairs to the beat of the tune. The girl, a rather pretty mulatta with large eyes and an African mouth, was rhythmically drumming the bongos and gazing into the eyes of the smiling and bearded guitarist, as she sang "A tonga da mironga do kabulete." "A tonga da mironga do kabulete." On the table were rum and On the table were rum and caipiriha, caipiriha, a heady Brazilian drink. Palm trees lined the sea, and Coy thought how it could be Rio, or Bahia. a heady Brazilian drink. Palm trees lined the sea, and Coy thought how it could be Rio, or Bahia.

He could see the beach through the open wooden railing, and beyond that El Piloto, sailing from the pleasure-craft port, whose forest of wood pilings rose from behind a small mole. At the back of that cove, on the high rock that protected the docks and fish market, Aguilas castle was surrounded by a crest of gray stone that grew darker as dusk fell. At the entrance, the sea was breaking on the point and on the island whose shape gave its name to the port. But the wind had died, and a fine, warm drizzle left puddled reflections on the dark gray sand of the beach, where the water was calm. He saw the first beacon go on, its black-and-white-striped tower still visible in the uncertain light, and he counted the cadence until he could identify it: two white flashes every five seconds.

When he again turned to Tanger, her eyes were on him. He had been talking, just making conversation about the music and the beach. He had begun, rather tentatively, only to fill an uncomfortable silence after El Piloto drank his coffee and said goodnight, leaving the two of them with the music and the last ashen light slowly fading over the bay. Tanger seemed to be waiting for him to continue, but he had finished, and he didn't know what to bring up to fill the silence. Fortunately, there was the music, the voices of the girl and the other singers, its effect intensified by the proximity of the beach and the drizzle whispering on the palm-leaf roof. He could keep silent without seeming too unsociable, so he reached for his gla.s.s of white wine and took a sip. Tanger smiled. She was moving her shoulders slightly to the beat of the music. Not long before, she had shifted to the caipirina, caipirina, and it shone in the navy-blue eyes fixed on Coy. and it shone in the navy-blue eyes fixed on Coy.

"What are you looking at?"

"I'm watching you."

He turned back to the beach, uncomfortable, and poured more wine, though his gla.s.s was nearly full. The eyes were still there, studying him.

"Tell me," she said, "what it is that changed about the sea."

"I didn't say anything about that."

"Yes, you did. Tell me why it's different now."

"Not now. now. It was already different when I began to sail." It was already different when I began to sail."

Her eyes never left him; she seemed truly interested. She was wearing a long, full blue cotton skirt and a white blouse that emphasized the tan of the last days. Her hair was silky and clean, like a sleek gold curtain; he had seen her washing it that afternoon. For the occasion she had replaced the masculine wrist.w.a.tch with a silver bracelet whose seven links glinted in the light of a candle stuck in a bottle at one side of the table.

"Does that mean the sea doesn't do it anymore?"

"It isn't that either." Coy made a vague gesture. "It does. It's that... Well. It isn't easy anymore to get away."

"Get away from what?"

"There's the telephone, the fax, the Internet. You go to nautical school so... I don't know. Because you want to go places. You want to know a lot of countries, and ports, and women-"

His distracted eyes stopped on the mulatta singer. Tanger followed the direction of his gaze.

"Have you known a lot of women?"

"Right now I don't remember."

'A lot of wh.o.r.es?"

He turned to face her, irritated. How you enjoy your d.a.m.ned little game, he thought. Now what he had before him were unblinking eyes the color of blued steel. They seemed amused, but also curious.

"Some," he answered.

Tanger evaluated the singer.

"Black?"

Coy gulped his wine, emptying half the gla.s.s. He slapped it down on the table.

"Yes," he said. "Black. And Chinese. And half-breeds... As the Tuc.u.man Torpedoman used to say, the good thing about wh.o.r.es is that they want your dollars, not conversation."

Tanger seemed unfazed. She smiled pensively. Coy found nothing pleasant in that smile.

"How are black girls?"

Now her eyes were on Coy's muscular forearms, bare below rolled-up shirtsleeves. He contemplated her a few seconds and then leaned back. He was trying to think of something appropriately outrageous to say.

"I don't know what to tell you. Some have rose-colored c.u.n.ts."

He saw her blink, and her lips part. For a moment, he noticed, perversely satisfied, she seemed taken aback. Touche, hot stuff. Then again the serene gaze, the sarcastic smile, the dark, blued steel reflected in the light of the candle.

"Why do you like to show off how gross and tough you are?"

"I'm not showing off." He drank what was left in the gla.s.s. He took his time doing it, then lifted his shoulders a fraction of an inch. "You can be gross and you can be tough, but still be a d.a.m.n fool. On that island of yours, it all seems compatible."

"Have you decided whether I'm a knight or a knave?"

He waited, thoughtful, playing with the empty gla.s.s.

"What you are," he said, "is a witch. A G.o.dd.a.m.n scheming witch."

It wasn't an insult; it was a comment. The statement of an objective reality, which she took without moving a muscle. She was staring so intently at Coy that he ended up wondering if she was looking at him.

"Who's the Tuc.u.man Torpedoman?"