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once or twice, and smiling across at her. But it was as if
we were both too shy to come together in company. At one point I saw Blackman
and Gastarian deep in debate, and noted that though there were other Blackmen
present, none wore black leathers.
    I
must have spoken to a hundred strangers that night, and downed a dozen measures
of alcohol. I have no recollection of getting to my room - but I fancy that Loi
must have had a hand in assisting me. When I awoke in the orange-hued early
hours, the room spinning and my mouth as dry as sand, she was once again in my
arms.
    The
following afternoon she took me to a cafe on the waterfront. More visitors had
arrived in the town during the night, in preparation for the race; they
promenaded up and down Mariners’ Walk, inspecting the many colourful boats
moored prow to stern at the river’s edge. We were not alone in the cafe; two or
three youths in sailors’ attire caught my attention. They were wearing
skullcaps with leads attached to persona-cubes before them on the table.
    I
whispered to Loi, ‘What are they doing?’
    She
frowned. ‘My guess is that they’re programming the cubes - downloading their personalities
into the devices. They will then give the cubes to loved ones and next of kin
in case they don’t survive the race.’
    ‘Does
the Church not proscribe such technology?’ I asked.
    ‘Of
course,’ she replied. ‘The persona cubes are illegally imported. Their owners
face severe fines, even imprisonment, if discovered.’
    I
judged that I was sufficiently close to Loi to tell her about my father.
‘Blackman said that I should visit the race museum on St Benedict’s island. Do
you know how I might get there?’
    ‘Well,
I do,’ she said, her eyes downcast. ‘The only problem is that the island is the
finishing point of the race - it stands three kilometres from the mouth of the
Laurent river in the Sapphire sea itself.’
    ‘So?
I don’t see any problem,’
    ‘Sinclair
- the only boats that visit the island at this time of year are those that
complete the race. The straits between the mainland and the island are so
treacherous . . .’
    I
sat back and digested the information.
    At
last I said, ‘Do you know if there’s still a spare place aboard the Swan?’
    ‘Gastarian
was looking for crewmen this morning.’
    I
hesitated. Then: ‘I think I’d better get myself a blank persona-cube, to leave
some record of who I was.’
    Loi
reached across the table and took my hand. ‘There’s no need for that. You don’t
think that if the Swan went down I wouldn’t save you, pluck you from the
river just as you saved me?’ She stood and pulled me from my seat. ‘Come, let’s
find Gastarian and tell him the good news.’
    We
strolled along the river bank, admiring the line of ships, each one a-swarm
with crew attending to the final preparations before tomorrow’s early start.
    ‘There
it is,’ Loi announced, pointing. ‘The Golden Swan.’
    I
might have guessed the vessel’s identity, even without the help of the
nameplate bolted to its timbers. The ship was the only golden one on the river;
thirty metres long, two-decked and three-masted, its figurehead a swan’s proud
neck and head.
    I
saw Blackman and Gastarian standing together on the foredeck. The Shipmaster
peered down at us and waved. ‘Climb aboard. Let me show you around.’
    We
joined them on the higher deck. ‘Good news,’ Loi said. ‘Sinclair wishes to join
the crew of the Golden Swan!’
    Gastarian
turned to Blackman. ‘Is prognostication another of your many talents?’ He
turned to me. ‘He told me last night that you would sign on before sunset.’
    I
smiled at Blackman. ‘However did you know?’ I asked.
    ‘Let’s
say . . . intuition, shall we?’
    ‘And
what,’ Loi put in, ‘does your intuition say about the race?’
    ‘I
see the Golden Swan victorious,’ Blackman forecast. ‘Gastarian the
recipient of the Grand Prize, Sinclair and Loi blithely happy . .