Brody looked up at the figure on the flying bridge: Quint. He wore a white T-shirt, faded blue-jean trousers, white socks, and a pair of graying Top-Sider sneakers. Brody guessed Quint was about fifty, and though surely he had once been twenty and would one day be sixty, it was impossible to imagine what he would look like at either of those ages. His present age seemed the age he should always be, should always have been. He was about six feet four and very lean—perhaps 180 or 190 pounds. His head was totally bald—not shaven, for there were no telltale black specks on his scalp, but as bald as if he had never had any hair—and when, as now, the sun was high and hot, he wore a Marine Corps fatigue cap. His face, like the rest of him, was hard and sharp. It was ruled by a long, straight nose. When he looked down from the flying bridge, he seemed to aim his eyes—the darkest eyes Brody had ever seen—along the nose as if it were a rifle barrel. His skin was permanently browned and creased by wind and salt and sun. He gazed off the stern, rarely blinking, his eyes fixed on the slick.

A trickle of sweat running down Brody’s chest made him stir. He turned his head, wincing at the sting in his neck, and tried to stare at the slick. But the reflection of the sun on the water hurt his eyes, and he turned away. “I don’t see how you do it, Quint,” he said. “Don’t you ever wear sunglasses?”

Quint looked down and said, “Never.” His tone was completely neutral, neither friendly nor unfriendly. It did not invite conversation.

But Brody was bored, and he wanted to talk. “How come?”

“No need to. I see things the way they are. That’s better.”

Brody looked at his watch. It was a little after two: three or four more hours before they would give up for the day and go home. “Do you have a lot of days like this?” The excitement and anticipation of the early morning had long passed, and Brody was sure they would not sight the fish that day.

“Like what?”

“Like this. When you sit all day long and nothing happens.”

“Some.”

“And people pay you even though they never catch a thing.”

“Those are the rules.”

“Even if they never get a bite?”

Quint nodded. “That doesn’t happen too often. There’s generally something that’ll take a bait. Or something we can stick.”

“Stick?”

“With an iron.” Quint pointed to the harpoons on the bow.

Hooper said, “What kinds of things do you stick, Quint?”

“Anything that swims by.”

“Really? I don’t—”

Quint cut him off. “Something’s taking one of the baits.”

Shading his eyes with his hand, Brody looked off the stern, but as far as he could see, the slick was undisturbed, the water flat and calm. “Where?” he said.

“Wait a second,” said Quint. “You’ll see.”