They had weakened her ancient planks and frames already. They could already hear water trickling into her hull.

They could sink her and bring her into their own world when they pleased. Of the sixty sawlike teeth—a double phalanx on top, a single row below—they had sacrificed only a dozen today.

They could lose that many feasting on skate. Already the missing teeth were being replaced; sharks lost them continually, all their life. Nature had endowed the species with spares, ready behind each one, and every replacement grew larger than its predecessor; some were four inches long.

The youngest of the men above had destroyed Papa Jacques's asson, and speared his flank, and that man must certainly die. Before they sank the vessel, they would tempt him to the shattered bow, bait him into carelessness, and strike.

On Masthead Point, beneath the ancient light, Papa Jacques smiled despite his pain. Damballah, the African serpent god, had gathered the victims as he'd asked. His master, the loa, would do the rest.

***

In the deckhouse, Ellen clung to the helm at the inside steering station. Every time the monster struck the boat, the impact seemed harder. The last time she had been hurled to the deck.

Mike was at the VHF radio, calling the Nassau Coast Guard without success. They had used up most of their battery power trying to start the engine.

At his workbench, Jake was disassembling the camera strobe light; why, he would not say. Hoagie, in the engine room, called up, "Ellen, hit the starter switch!"

She pressed a button by the inside steering station. The starter ground, whined, and the engine coughed but did not fire.

"Bad leak down here," called Hoagie. "Three feet of water in the bilge, and rising. I'm going to bleed your primary filter."

"Okay, Lindberg," called Jake. He was working desperately at whatever he had in mind.

Boom, boom, boom... boom, boom, boom...

"Here he comes," said Mike. "Hang on!"

There was a mighty crash from forward. The boat heeled to starboard. Water slopped through an open deckhouse porthole, soaking Ellen.

She had two bullets left in the gun. She was damned if she was going to stand there while the monster sank their boat without using them. She started for the door. Mike grabbed her arm.

"No way, Mom."

"We can't just—"

"No more shooting. It just stirs him up." He took the gun away from her.

"I want it stopped!" she said hysterically. "I want him killed."

He looked into her eyes. "If anybody can do it, it's Jake. So simmer down…."

Jake stood up. "Okay. The strobe's charged. There's enough voltage in this condenser to light him up from nose to tail." Handling it carefully, he laid the waterproof strobe on the chart table. He had stripped it and run wires to copper contacts he had drilled into its shell.

"What do we do with it?" demanded Mike.