"Here we are drifting rudderless like jetsam and flotsam over the great sea of life," Giordino muttered through salt-caked lips. "Now all we have to do is figure out a way to steer this thing."
"Say no more," said Pitt, using the screwdriver to remove the hinges on a fiberglass seat that covered a storage compartment. In less than a minute, he held up the rectangular lid, which was about the same size and shape as a cupboard door. "Every move a picture."
"How do you plan to attach it?" asked Maeve, becoming immune to Pitt's continuing display of inventiveness.
"By using the hinges on the remaining seats and attaching them to the lid, I can screw it to the transom that held the outboard motor so that it can swing back and forth. Then by attaching two ropes to the upper end, we can operate it the same as any rudder on a ship or airplane. It's called making the world a better place to live."
"You've done it," Giordino said stoically. "Artistic license, elementary logic, idle living, sex appeal, it's all there."
Pitt looked at Maeve and smiled. "The great thing about Al is that he is almost totally theatrical."
"So now that we've got a particle of control, great navigator, what's our heading?"
"That's up to the lady," said Pitt. "She's more familiar with these waters than we are."
"If we head straight north," Maeve answered, "we might make Tasmania."
Pitt shook his head and gestured at the makeshift sail. "We're not rigged to sail under a beam wind.
Because of our flat bottom, we'd be blown five times as far east as north. Making landfall on the southern tip of New Zealand is a possibility but a remote one. We'll have to compromise by setting the sail to head slightly north of east, say a heading of seventy-five degrees on my trusty Boy Scout compass."
"The farther north the better," she said, holding her arms around her breasts for warmth. "The nights are too cold this far south."
"Do you know if there are landfalls on that course?" Giordino asked Maeve.
"Not many," she answered flatly. "The islands that lie south of New Zealand are few and far apart. We could easily pass between them without sighting one, especially at night."
They may be our only hope." Pitt held the compass in his hand and studied the needle. "Do you recall their approximate whereabouts?"
"Stewart Island just below the South Island. Then come the Snares, the Auckland Islands, and nine hundred kilometers farther south are the Macquaries."
"Stewart is the only one that sounds vaguely familiar," said Pitt thoughtfully.
"Macquarie, you won't care for." Maeve gave an instinctive shiver. "The only inhabitants are penguins, and it often snows."
"It must be swept by colder currents out of the Antarctic." '
"Miss any one of them and it's open sea all the way to South America," Giordino said discouragingly.
Pitt shielded his eyes and scanned the empty sky. "If the cold nights don't get us, without rain we'll dehydrate long before we step onto a sandy beach. Our best approach is to keep heading toward the southern islands in hopes of hitting one. You might call it putting all our eggs in several baskets to lower the odds."
"Then we make a stab for the Macquaries," said Giordino.
"They're our best hope," Pitt agreed.
With Giordino's able help, Pitt soon set the sail for a slight tack on a magnetic compass bearing of seventy-five degrees. The rudimentary rudder worked so well that they were able to increase their heading to nearly sixty degrees. Buoyed by the realization that they had a tiny grip on their destiny, they felt a slight optimism begin to emerge, heightened by Giordino's sudden announcement.
"We have a squall heading our way."
Black clouds had materialized and were sweeping out of the western sky as quickly as if some giant above were unrolling a carpet over the castaways. Within minutes drops of moisture began pelting the boat. Then they came heavier and more concentrated until the rain fell in a torrential downpour.
"Open every locker and anything that resembles a container," ordered Pitt as he frantically lowered the nylon sail. "Hold the sail on a slant with one end over the side of the boat for a minute to wash away the salt accumulation, before we form it into a trough to funnel the rainwater into the ice chest."
As the rain continued to pour down, they all tilted their faces toward the clouds, opening wide and filling their mouths, swallowing the precious liquid like greedy young birds demanding a meal from their winged parents. The pure fresh smell and pure taste came as sweet as honey to parched throats. No sensation could have been more pleasing.
The wind rushed over the sea, and for the next twelve minutes they reveled in a blinding deluge. The neoprene flotation tubes rumbled like drums as the raindrops struck their skintight sides. Water soon filled the ice chest and overflowed on the bottom of the boat. The life-giving squall ended as abruptly as it had begun. Hardly a drop was wasted. They removed their clothes and wrung the water from the cloth into their mouths before storing any excess from the bottom of the boat in every receptacle they could devise. With the passing of the squall and the intake of fresh water, their spirits rose to new heights.
"How much do you figure we collected?" Maeve wondered aloud.
"Between ten and twelve liters," Giordino guessed.
"We can stretch it another three liters by mixing it with seawater," said Pitt.
Maeve stared at him. "Aren't you inviting disaster? Drinking water laced with salt isn't exactly a cure for thirst."
"On hot, sultry days in the tropics, humans have a tendency to pour a stream of water down their throats until it comes out their ears and still feel thirsty. The body takes in more liquid than it needs. What your system really needs after sweating a river, is salt. Your tongue may retain the unwanted taste of seawater, but trust me, adding it to fresh water will quench your thirst without making you sick."
After a meal of raw fish and a replacement of their body liquids, they felt almost human again. Maeve found a small amount of grease where the engine controls once attached under the console and mixed it with oil she had squeezed from the caught fish to make a sunburn lotion. She laughingly referred to her concoction as Fletcher's Flesh Armour and pronounced the Skin Protection Factor a minus six. The only affliction they could not remedy was the sores that were forming on their legs and backs, caused by chafing front the constant motion of the boat. Maeve's improvised suntan lotion helped but did not correct the growing problem.
A stiff breeze sprang up in the afternoon, which boiled the sea around them as they were flung to the northeast, caught in the whim of the unpredictable waves. The leather jacket sea anchor was thrown out, and Pitt lowered the sail to keep it from blowing away. It was like racing down a snowy hill on a giant inner tube, completely out of control. The blow lasted until ten o'clock the next morning before finally tapering off. As soon as the seas calmed, the fish came back. They were seemingly maddened by the interruption, thrashing the water and butting up against the boat. The more voracious fish, the bullies on the block, had a field day with their smaller cousins. For close to an hour the water around the raft turned to blood as the fish acted out their never-ending life-or-death struggle that the sharks always won.
Tired beyond measure from being thrown about in the boat, Maeve quickly fell asleep and dreamed of her children. Giordino also took a siesta, his dreams conjuring up a vision of an all-you-can-eat restaurant buffet. For Pitt there were no dreams. He brushed all feelings of weariness aside and rehoisted the sail.
He took a sighting of the sun with his cross-staff and set a course with the compass. Settling into a comfortable position in the stem, he steered the boat toward the northeast with the ropes attached to the rudder.
As so often when the sea was calm, he felt aloof from the problems of staying alive and the sea around him. After thinking and rethinking the situation, his thoughts always returned to Arthur Dorsett. He stirred himself to summon up his anger. No man could visit unspeakable horrors on innocent people, even his
own daughter, and not suffer a form of retribution. It mattered more than ever now. The leering faces of Dorsett and his daughters Deirdre and Boudicca beckoned to hum.
There was no room in Pitt's mind for the suffering of the past five days, for any emotion revolving around the torment of near death, no thought of anything but the primeval obsession for revenge.
Revenge or execution, there was no distinction in Pitt's mind. Dorsett would not, could not be permitted to continue his reign of evil, certainly not after so many deaths. He had to be held accountable.
Pitt's mind was fixed on not one but two objectives-- the rescue of Maeve's two sons and the killing of the evil diamond merchant.
Pitt steered the tiny craft over the vast sea throughout the eighth day. At sunset, Giordino took over the navigation duties while Pitt and Maeve dined on a combination of raw and dried fish. A full moon rose over the horizon as a great amber ball before diminishing and turning white as it crossed the night sky above them. After several swallows of water to wash down the taste of fish, Maeve sat nestled in Pitt's arms and stared at the silver shaft in the sea that led to the moon.
She murmured the words from "Moon River." "Two drifters off to see the world." She paused, looked up into Pitt's strong face and studied the hard line of his jaw, the dark and heavy brows and the green eyes that glinted whenever the light struck them right. He had a welt shaped nose, for a man, but it showed evidence of having been broken on more than one occasion. The lines around his eyes and the slight curl of the lips gave him the appearance of someone who was humorous and always smiling, a man a woman could be comfortable with; who posed no threat. There was a strange blend of hardness and sensitivity that she found incredibly appealing.
She sat quietly, mesmerized by him, until he looked down suddenly, seeing the expression of fascination on her face. She made no movement to turn away.
"You're not an ordinary man," she said without knowing why.
He stared quizzically. "What makes you say that?"
"The things you say, the things you do. I've never known anybody who was so in tune with life."
He grinned, his -pleasure apparent. "Those are words I've never heard from a woman."
"You must have known many?" she asked with girlish curiosity.
"Many?"
"Women.
"Not really. I always wanted to be a lecher like AI here, but seldom found the time."
"Married?"
"No, never."
"Come close?"
"Maybe once."
"What happened?"
"She was killed."
Maeve could see that Pitt had never quite bridged the chasm separating sorrow and bittersweet memory. She regretted asking the question and felt embarrassed. She was instinctively drawn to him and wanted to burrow into his mind. She guessed that he was the kind of man who longed for something deeper than a casual physical relationship, and she knew that insincere flirting held no attraction for him.
"Her name was Summer," he continued quietly. "It was a long time ago."
"I'm sorry," said Maeve softly.
"Her eyes were gray and her hair red, but she looked much like you."
"I'm flattered."
He was about to ask her about her boys but stopped himself, realizing it would spoil the intimacy of the moment. Two people alone, well, almost alone, in a world of moon, stars and a black restless sea.
Devoid of humans and solid ground, thousands of kilometers of fluid nothingness surrounded them. It was all too easy to forget where they were and imagine themselves sailing across the bay of some tropical island.
"You also bear an incredible resemblance to your great-great-great-grandmother," he said.
She raised her head and gazed at him. "How could you possibly know I look like her?"
"The painting on the yacht, of Betsy Fletcher."
"I must tell you about Betsy sometime," said Maeve, curling up in his arms like a cat.
"No need," he said smiling. "I feel I know her almost as well as you. A very heroic woman, arrested and sent to the penal colony at Botany Bay, survivor of the raft of the Gladiator. She helped save the lives of Captain `Bully' Scaggs and Jess Dorsett, a convicted highwayman who became her husband and your great-great-great grandfather. After landing on what became known as Gladiator Island, Betsy discovered one of the world's largest diamond mines and founded a dynasty. Back in my hangar I have an entire dossier on the Dorsetts, beginning with Betsy and Jess and continuing through their descendants down to you and your reptilian sisters."
She sat up again, a sudden anger in her snapping blue eyes. "You had me investigated, you rat, probably by your CIA."
Pitt shook his head. "Not you so much as the chronicles of the Dorsett family of diamond merchants.
My interest comes under the heading of research, which was conducted by a fine old gentleman who would be very indignant if he knew you referred to him as an agent with the CIA."
"You don't know as much about my family as you might think," she said loftily. "My father and his forefathers were very private men."
"Come to think of it," he said soothingly, "there is one member of your cast who intrigues me more than the others."
She looked at him lopsidedly. "If not me, who then?"
"The sea monster in your lagoon."
The answer took her completely by surprise. "You can't mean Basil?"
He looked blank a moment. "Who?"
"Basil is not a sea monster, he's a sea serpent. There's a distinct difference. I've seen him on three different occasions with my own eyes."
Then Pitt broke out laughing. "Basil? You call him Basil?"
"You wouldn't laugh if he got you in his jaws," she said waspishly.
Pitt shook his head. "I can't believe I'm listening to a trained zoologist who believes in sea serpents."
"To begin with, sea serpent is a misnomer. They are not true serpents, like snakes."
"There have been wild stories from tourists claiming to have seen strange beasties in every lake from Loch Ness to Lake Champlain, but I haven't heard of any sightings in the oceans since the last century."
"Sightings at sea do not receive the publicity they used to. Wars, natural disasters and mass murders have pushed them out of the headlines."
"That wouldn't stop the tabloids."
"Sea routes for powered ships are fairly well fixed," Maeve explained patiently. "The early sailing ships moved in unfrequented waters. Whaling ships, which sailed after whales rather than the shortest distance between ports, often reported sightings. Wind-driven ships also sailed silently and were able to approach a serpent on the surface, while a modern diesel vessel can be heard underwater for kilometers. Just because they're large doesn't mean they aren't shy, retiring creatures, indefatigable ocean voyagers who refuse to be captured."
"If they aren't illusions or snakes, then what are they, leftover dinosaurs?"
"Okay, Mr. Skeptic," she said seriously, a touch of defiant pride in her tone. "I'm writing my Ph.D.
thesis on the subject of cryptozoology, the science of legendary beasts. For your information there are 467 sightings confirmed after faulty vision, hoaxes and secondhand reports have been eliminated. I have them all categorized in my computer at the university; nature of sightings, including weather and sea conditions in which sightings took place; geographical distribution, distinguishing characteristics, color, shape and size. Through graphics-rendering techniques I can backtrack the beasts' evolution. To answer your question, they've probably evolved from dinosaurs in a manner similar to alligators and crocodiles.
But they are definitely not `leftovers.' The Plesiosaurs, the species most often thought to have survived as present-day sea serpents, never exceeded sixteen meters, far smaller than Basil, for example."
"All right, I'll reserve judgment until you convince me they truly exist."
"There are six primary species," she lectured. "The most sightings have been of along-necked creature with one main hump and wit
h head and jaws similar to that of a large dog. Next is one that is always described as having the head of a horse with a mane and saucer-shaped eyes. This creature is also reported to have goatlike whiskers under its lower jaw."
" `Goat whiskers,' " Pitt repeated cynically.
"Then there is the variety with a true serpentine body like that of an eel. Another has the appearance of a giant sea otter, while yet another is known for its row of huge, triangular fins. The kind most often pictured has many dorsal humps, an egg-shaped head and big doglike muzzle. This serpent is almost always reported as being black on top and white on the bottom. Some have seal-- or turtlelike flippers or fins, some do not. Some grow enormously long tails, others a short stub. Many are described as having fur, most others are silky smooth. The colors vary from yellow-gray to brown to black. Almost all witnesses agree that the lower part of the bodies is white. Unlike most true sea and land snakes, which propel themselves by wiggling side-to-side, the serpent moves by making vertical undulations. It appears to dine on fish, only shows itself in calm weather and has been observed in every sea except the waters around the Arctic and Antarctic."
"How do you know all these sightings were not misinterpreted?" asked Pitt. "They could have been basking sharks, clumps of seaweed, porpoises swimming in single file, or even a giant squid."
"In most cases there was more than one observer," retorted Maeve. "Many of the viewers were sea captains of great integrity. Captain Arthur Rostron was one."
"I know the name. He was captain of the Carpathia, the ship that picked up the Titanic survivors."
"He witnessed a creature that appeared in great distress, as if it were injured."
"Witnesses may be completely honest, but mistaken," Pitt insisted. "Until a serpent, or a piece of one, is handed over to scientists to dissect and study, there is no proof."