Standing in the moonlight, he'd belted half a fifth and chased it with half a box of Clorets.

It was all her fault. Seeing baggy eyes where there were none and hearing a husky voice—Christ, he'd had a cold—she'd only dragged him down to dry him out.

Now he sat back in his fishing chair, well sunblocked against ultraviolet: "Can't risk skin cancer, can we? Or even nasty little wrinkles by our mouth?" He wore glasses so dark, he could hardly see: "Eyes were a little red on the special, remember?"

He looked at the sun. It was sinking.

Mast over the yardarm: cocktail hour. She had him dead sober at cocktail hour! On his own frigging boat!

On the flying bridge he heard his crewmen opening beers. He craned his neck around and stared accusingly up at his skipper, a tanned, lanky cracker who was probably banging his wife.

There had been a day when the kid would not have dared open a beer without offering him one. Now he shrugged regretfully and turned back to the wheel.

Cowed and whipped, the both of them, by a pair of long, slim legs.

He tried to remember how many Pepsi Cola bottles remained at the bottom of the tank.

Three family-size bottles when they'd cast off from the Fort Lauderdale dock? Okay, he'd finished one the day before yesterday, before dinner, while he fished. Then another half the day before, then the half a fifth that night. A few belts before breakfast, while she slept.

A slug or two while she fixed his lunch—no, more—he'd finished that one too. A few after-lunch drinks for luck, while he baited his hooks. Foggily he tried to add it all up. Was there only half a bottle left?

And three full days to go!

He began to shake. They'd have to pull in to Cat Cays or Nassau! He'd tell her he had to call the network, and didn't want every yachtsman in the Atlantic listening in.

And send the skipper up Bay Street on a whiskey run. He set his pole in its holder, moved to the bait tank.

He peered into the swirling water, circulated by a pump. The beautiful emerald dorados shimmered among the bubbles. He squinted through his glasses. It was dark in the tank, and he couldn't see. Suppose the last bottle was gone?

Breathing hard, he dug into the dorados. They panicked and thrashed up a foam. He began to scoop them out, frantic with fear, digging through the school to see. Soon he was shoveling with both hands, throwing them over the stern. He heard them splashing in the wake.

Oh, God—oh, God! Had he drunk it all?

Only a few fish remained. He yanked off his glasses; he had to see.

A flash of red in a corner of the tank. He sagged in relief. He plunged his arm in, up to the armpit, and pulled out the dripping bottle.