Ellen lay dozing on her bed. She had fallen into the Bahamian habit of taking a nap after lunch. It was quiet off Carla's studio, and the soft breeze from Masthead Bay carried a scent of palm.

Through the door she had been watching the wind ruffle the sail that covered the statue. She wondered why Carla was so secretive about it: Mike claimed that she had never been so before.

The veiled shape was a puzzle. A tall, shrouded woman blessing the earth? Or Father Time with his scythe? Death?

She dozed. Through deep, ebony waters she saw a gleaming eye. It was wide, flat, unblinking, and grew larger as she watched. It was Papa Jacques's, she realized, and it had her in its power.

Helplessly she tried to swim away. But her arms and legs were paralyzed, and she could not swim a stroke. The eye grew closer, not Papa Jacques's at all: It was a shark wearing a shark necklace, a gourd in its gleaming teeth.

And it was not heading for her but for Mike, who was down below, peering along the bottom, as if he had lost something. He was looking for Thea!

Mike! she shouted. Michael!

But no sound came out; her throat was paralyzed too.

She awoke thrashing, bathed in sweat. She had kicked aside the bedclothes—now she'd have to make the bed. Quickly she moved to the window.

The Neptune's Folly had been tied to the diving barge all morning long, but now it had cast off its lines and was heading for Masthead Cut.

Or through it? Out to sea? For some reason the idea frightened her.

Ridiculous. They were probably only anchoring over the wreck that Mike had mentioned, a haven for homeless conch.

She washed up from her nap and went to call Hoagie at the airstrip. Everyone wanted her out of her shell, and they were right. If she was going to have nightmares during her siestas, it was time that she woke up.

***

Jake stood on deck at the helm. He took a quick bearing on Masthead Point, another on Prince George Town, and dropped Neptune's old CQR anchor as closely to the wreck site as he dared; he didn't want to foul his hook in the superstructure itself.

He stepped back into the cluttered deckhouse. For the fifth time in the last ten minutes he picked up the mike and called, "Neptune's Folly to Whine Bottle! Where are you, Mike? Get back to the sub or come up!"

Not a word from below. Damn! He'd been devising a bracket at his workbench when he'd become aware that the Whine Bottle's growl, which you could hear quite clearly on the deckhouse speaker, had quit. Maybe her battery had gone dead. A problem; there was no way to get her back to the surface without installing the spare batteries underwater, and the spares, which they kept in the sail locker, first had to be recharged.