It burst from its base on sweeping tubes, like streams of water cascading as they leapt. Its sides were of sheet metal, shimmering in the sunlight with a hundred changing patterns. Near the top was a wide, staring circle of ebony.

Papa Jacques's eye? Seen in this light, perhaps.

"Oh, Carla," she breathed. "Oh, my God."

Carla turned a valve and lit her cutting torch. The gas began to roar. She approached the figure. Ellen grabbed her arm. It felt like the steel of the figure she attacked.

"Carla, you can't! I don't care what we think it is. It's alive, you made it live!"

"I want it dead," said Carla. "Ellen, get out of my way."

Thea burst in from the porch. "Daddy says if we don't haul our butts—" She broke off, staring at the form. "Mommy! There it is!"

"Was," muttered Carla. She adjusted the flame.

Thea did not hear her above the torch's roar. She ran to the figure. On tiptoes, she ran her hand down the sleek metal body.

"It's Peeper. You made Peeper!"

"Get out of the way, Thea," Carla said gently. She paused and looked into her daughter's face. "’Peeper'?"

"The doctor bird! This is his tail." The tiny hand caressed the tubes from which the figure rose. She pointed at the lacy cross member far above. "And he's taking that thing to Jamaica to build his nest!"

Carla stepped away from the figure and studied it, running her finger along her lips. Slowly she reached down and turned off the flame. She pulled off her leather gloves, tossed them onto her workbench. She bent swiftly and kissed Thea on the top of her golden head.

"Mommy, let's not show Daddy! Until they have the undressing?"

"Unveiling," Carla said. "Okay."

She threw the sail over the work and went to the door. Her face was troubled.

"Mike," she called, "it's ready! Let's get it on the road!"

***

Mike Brody inspected the caravan. The shrouded form was in the padded crate they had constructed for it; the crate was lashed securely to the sides of the jeep-trailer; the trailer hitch was checked. The road to Prince George Town would be full of potholes, even after it turned from dirt to macadam, and the whole enchilada seemed precarious.

He still had not been allowed to look at the figure, although Ellen and Thea had.

Women...

He started the jeep. Jake was taking William to the Festival in the project's old Ford station wagon, and Ellen and Thea too.

Mike glanced toward the water. Jake was standing on the dock, listening for the last time to make sure that the shark had not returned.

When he came back, he said, "Gone forever. I told you he'd leave."

Mike sighed. So much for his learned paper, Great White Shark in Warm Waters: Aberration, Trend, or Migration?

"Well"—Mike shrugged—"one swallow never makes a summer. Back to conch?"