her aboard and set her carefully on a cradle. The old sloop had no value—but it was more than a sloop. It was a hospital with an operating room, far superior to a merchant ship's dispensary. Had the dead man shot back? Had he wounded someone who couldn't go to a real hospital?
If Stone was reasoning correctly, if the rambling and convoluted hopes, inferences, and " facts" led to the right conclusion, then Sarah was safe. And so was Ronnie. Safe while she treated her patient. As long as the patient lived.
A frail hope that let him rest. He dozed in five-minute catnaps. Suddenly the cold and the rising wind woke him. But as he rose groggily to drive the canoe harder, an unspeakable explanation suddenly rattled him to the bone.
Had she left him? Had Sarah taken Ronnie and made some deal with the captain to speed them away? He knew he was crazy. But "I want to go home," she had said. Crazy. Remember the dead man, he told himself.
But he couldn't put from his mind her increasing interest in the changes sweeping Africa, her obsession with Ronnie's studies. There wasn't a nation on the war-torn, disease-ravaged continent that wasn't begging for doctors. You hide from life, she accused. You're a natural fugitive.
Crazy. He got busy with the sail and tried to tether his mind to the night sky. Remember the dead man. Three bullets in the back. That was real. Real, but as inexplicable as the heavens, which were white with stars.
All his guides hung in place: Orion and Betelgeuse, Big Dipper, Southern Cross; Altair, the North Star. He planned to sail north to the latitude of Angaur, then west, downwind, until he found it. North and hang a left. The tricky part was knowing when to hang the left.
Angaur lay seven degrees north of the equator. He was currently somewhere in the vicinity of three degrees north. Each degree was sixty miles. Approximately two hundred miles separated him from Angaur's latitude. But it was impossible to clock those miles, so he needed a fix on the
zenith of a star whose high point corresponded with Angaur's latitude. A fanakenga star, the Pacific navigators called it, when at its zenith it pointed straight down at their target. The old guy who'd cracked up the canoe had probably memorized the zeniths of a hundred stars and corresponding islands. Stone knew a few by heart: Altair at nine degrees north promised Kwajalein in the Marshalls, and Yap in the Western Carolines; the high point of Hamal, in Aries the Ram, was close to the latitude of Hong Kong. And Beetlejuice, as Ronnie called Betelgeuse. Bright red Betelgeuse. He saw it now just north and east of Orion's belt—one of the first he had taught Sarah to identify and by whose light they had "courted" many years ago off the African coast. By some gift of God or Neptune, Betelgeuse's zenith nearly matched the latitude of Angaur. In theory he could establish Angaur's latitude when he found himself directly under the highest point that Betelgeuse crossed the night sky. But when he tried to practice, the ocean rolled and pitched the canoe; and it seemed impossible to determine the zenith of Betelgeuse as he lay on his back watching the mast arc back and forward like a demented pendulum.
He heard a noise. It was a strange city noise, like a subway platform or a baseball game, so different from the soft sounds of waves and wind that he thought he was imagining it. A crackling sound, like a Japanese yelling in a loudspeaker.
Stone sat up. A brightly lighted ship was coming up behind him less than a quarter mile to his right. A fishing trawler. She was moving fast, deck hands busy under blazing work lights.
He dug his radio out of his bag and shouted, "Mayday. Mayday. Mayday." No reply. He cupped his hands and hailed them. The wind whisked his voice away. He opened his backpack, found his penlights, and waved them at the trawler. When it didn't respond, he shone them on his rice-bag sail.
The ship was catching up. With his hands filled with the lights,
If Stone was reasoning correctly, if the rambling and convoluted hopes, inferences, and " facts" led to the right conclusion, then Sarah was safe. And so was Ronnie. Safe while she treated her patient. As long as the patient lived.
A frail hope that let him rest. He dozed in five-minute catnaps. Suddenly the cold and the rising wind woke him. But as he rose groggily to drive the canoe harder, an unspeakable explanation suddenly rattled him to the bone.
Had she left him? Had Sarah taken Ronnie and made some deal with the captain to speed them away? He knew he was crazy. But "I want to go home," she had said. Crazy. Remember the dead man, he told himself.
But he couldn't put from his mind her increasing interest in the changes sweeping Africa, her obsession with Ronnie's studies. There wasn't a nation on the war-torn, disease-ravaged continent that wasn't begging for doctors. You hide from life, she accused. You're a natural fugitive.
Crazy. He got busy with the sail and tried to tether his mind to the night sky. Remember the dead man. Three bullets in the back. That was real. Real, but as inexplicable as the heavens, which were white with stars.
All his guides hung in place: Orion and Betelgeuse, Big Dipper, Southern Cross; Altair, the North Star. He planned to sail north to the latitude of Angaur, then west, downwind, until he found it. North and hang a left. The tricky part was knowing when to hang the left.
Angaur lay seven degrees north of the equator. He was currently somewhere in the vicinity of three degrees north. Each degree was sixty miles. Approximately two hundred miles separated him from Angaur's latitude. But it was impossible to clock those miles, so he needed a fix on the
zenith of a star whose high point corresponded with Angaur's latitude. A fanakenga star, the Pacific navigators called it, when at its zenith it pointed straight down at their target. The old guy who'd cracked up the canoe had probably memorized the zeniths of a hundred stars and corresponding islands. Stone knew a few by heart: Altair at nine degrees north promised Kwajalein in the Marshalls, and Yap in the Western Carolines; the high point of Hamal, in Aries the Ram, was close to the latitude of Hong Kong. And Beetlejuice, as Ronnie called Betelgeuse. Bright red Betelgeuse. He saw it now just north and east of Orion's belt—one of the first he had taught Sarah to identify and by whose light they had "courted" many years ago off the African coast. By some gift of God or Neptune, Betelgeuse's zenith nearly matched the latitude of Angaur. In theory he could establish Angaur's latitude when he found himself directly under the highest point that Betelgeuse crossed the night sky. But when he tried to practice, the ocean rolled and pitched the canoe; and it seemed impossible to determine the zenith of Betelgeuse as he lay on his back watching the mast arc back and forward like a demented pendulum.
He heard a noise. It was a strange city noise, like a subway platform or a baseball game, so different from the soft sounds of waves and wind that he thought he was imagining it. A crackling sound, like a Japanese yelling in a loudspeaker.
Stone sat up. A brightly lighted ship was coming up behind him less than a quarter mile to his right. A fishing trawler. She was moving fast, deck hands busy under blazing work lights.
He dug his radio out of his bag and shouted, "Mayday. Mayday. Mayday." No reply. He cupped his hands and hailed them. The wind whisked his voice away. He opened his backpack, found his penlights, and waved them at the trawler. When it didn't respond, he shone them on his rice-bag sail.
The ship was catching up. With his hands filled with the lights,
Similar Books
