The point of the harpoon was digging into the flank of the great white shark. It angered him, as if a remora sucker-fish had fastened himself to his jaw.

All day long the vessel that had put it there had dogged him, frightening his prey, until finally he turned south.

He was famished. He found sparse pickings in the southern lee of Masthead Cay. He continued south, and as he swam, the pain of the harpoon increased.

His kind had evolved to adapt to remora, and other parasites as well, and in his lifetime he had outlasted several that had hung to his nose and his tail. This remora enraged him, and he associated it with man.

The harpoon point was festering inside him, and the shortened shaft grew sore, but the transmitter he carried on his flank did not change his life at all.

Somewhere in his tiny brain a memory remained of the boat that had dogged him everywhere the previous day, and which had caused him all his hurt. He noticed its absence and would know it when he met it once again. Something in its look and feel and smell aroused him.

A deep instinct impelled him to regard the living creatures that swarmed on its back, like lice on a whale, as enemies rather than prey. Before the shock of the harpoon, there had been no room in his mind or his belly for anything but food. Now he was consumed with hate for the beings who had put it there.

He cruised the open Atlantic south of Whiskey Cay for half the day and took three skate, a dozen yellowtails, and a score of flashing dolphin fish. He entered Spanish Galleon Cut.

Here was instant action. He was suddenly aware of sharp concussions above the surface, like the six he had heard weeks before off Amity Beach, but in a different, staccato rhythm, and many more.

Pow-pow-pow...pow-pow-pow... pow-pow... pow-pow-pow-pow...

The shots triggered his hunting senses, and the beat of his tail increased. He headed for the beach.

***

Rico Lomas glanced back. He saw el Conejo Grande pitch backward from the rubber boat, thrash convulsively in the water, and sink like a weighted packet of coke.

He heard a triumphant blast from Alejandro's horn and saw his driver turn back with his thumb held high.

A good man, Alejandro; he had made the run just right. Now he was turning into the breadth of the lagoon, assuming that his boss would want a victory pass at the grandstand.

Well, why not? If you had it, as the norteamericanos said, then flaunt it. How many water-skiers could ski one-handed? And how many could pick off a man-sized target at forty knots? From what range? Ten feet? Hell, no—twenty, fifty? A hundred. Who, back on the llanos, would dare to disbelieve? And el Viejo would bask in this new legend of his grandson's vicious skills.