At first astonished and then repulsed, she gave him look for look, insolent and derisive, letting her face show her revulsion. He was short and thickset, with long arms and a heavy jaw. His face looked as if it had been chipped out with a pickax, blunt-featured and brutal. His skin was clear, his eyes gleamed, and his hair, as dark as his eyes, was as thick and shining as a bear's pelt.

Her scrutiny didn't bother him; he even smiled a little, a slight lifting of the corners of his mouth. Involuntarily she looked toward the bow. Mutt was there. Lying down, true, but watching, her chin on her paws, yellow eyes unblinkingly fixed on the stocky figure of the drift fisherman.

He followed Kate's gaze. The little smile widened. Even at this distance Kate could see the hair raise ever so slightly on the back of Mutt's neck, and she was glad when the boy's exhausted voice echoed up from the hold of the drifter, "That's it, we're empty," and she was able to turn to the boom controls and bring the brailer back over the Freyas hold.

She caught a glimpse of Auntie Joy, who had either remained standing at the door to the galley during the drifter's delivery or come out again. The old woman's face was still, and there was something in her eyes that brought Kate to a standstill. "Auntie?" she whispered, without knowing why she was whispering. "Auntie, what's wrong?" A bumper caught between two hulls squeaked in protest and Kate turned to see the drifter captain vault the Freyas gunnel in one smooth, easy motion. It wasn't anything she hadn't seen skippers and deckhands do fifty times already that day, but he made it look natural, even graceful, like Mutt taking a fallen tree in one easy stride on a run through the Park. He made no move to come closer, but somehow he seemed to fill up the deck with his presence. Again Kate looked toward the bow. Mutt was sitting up now, looking at her, waiting for a signal.

The man nodded. "Joyce."

Auntie Joy, her face stiff, nodded. "Mr. Neamy."

He grinned. His mouth was wide and overfilled with large white teeth. "Meany. But I told you to call me Cal." His voice was a deep, soft purr of sound.

He stripped the gloves from his hands and tossed them back to his boat. The boy made catching them into an act of personal survival, which it probably was. Cal Meany watched without expression as the boy snatched the gloves from the air with one hand, lost his balance and went down hard on one knee to avoid going into the water. "Wash the hold and the deck down," his skipper said, and turned back to Kate, allowing his eyes to drop to her breasts. "Who are you?"

"The deck boss," she said shortly. "Sam!"

A grizzled head poked out the door. "Yeah?"

"Got another ticket to write."

"Call 'em off."