When they were nearly finished, the gendarme seemed to brace himself, “Captain,” he mumbled, face flaming, “there is one more question, I mus’ demand...”

“Ask,” entoned Mitch. “He means ‘ask.’”

“H’ask,” nodded the gendarme. “My superiors, in Papeete, they say I must h’ask...” He stumbled, spoke to Mitch, beseeching help. Whatever question he wanted to ask, Mitch shook his head and sat mute, lips grim.

The Australian’s lips began to tremble. He sighed and began to talk: “I’ll go through it again. He waved, you see, and laughed, sort of. He was sure I’d get back. But flying twin headsails, with no help, it was five minutes before I could get them down...” He stopped for a moment, biting his lip. “Then the spray, on my eyeglasses ... I’d try to wipe them clear, peering ahead, you know ... And in thirty seconds they’d be bloody useless again, and I’d have to take them off ... No radio. The wind-vane was broken, Ian was going to repair it, very handy with tools, he is...” He turned to Lindy. "Was, I suppose. But it’s hard to imagine him gone. Kiwi, you know, from Auckland. Kiwis will fix anything. ‘She’ll be right, mate,’ he’d say. When the silly engine would balk, you know? ‘Not to worry, Cobber, she’ll be right...’”

The gendarme broke in unhappily. To Mitch, he said: “Please, you must h’ask...”

The Australian seemed not to have heard. He said to Mitch: “In all events, thank this gentleman, please, for everything. They sent planes out, you know? When I got here. And a helicopter, can you imagine? Ian looking up and seeing a helicopter? Never have pulled him out, he’d pull it down, I imagine. Sixteen stone, he was, I think.”

The gendarme gave up and thanked Mitch for his help.

Mitch invited the old man to join them for a beer, but he smiled and shook his head. They watched him row slowly out to his battered cutter, half a mile from the rest of the yachts.

“What,” asked Lindy, “was the question you wouldn’t ask?”

“Why he quit so soon.”

“So soon?” He had not given up for twenty-four hours. She visualized the ponderous march of the trade-wind seas. She knew how quickly they hid a hat or a bucket knocked overboard. And she knew the fatigue that could have you babbling after four hours on the wheel. Impossible to describe, though, to the young gendarme or his superiors in Papeete.

“Well,” she said, “I’m glad you didn’t ask it.”

The old man reached his boat, tied his dinghy off, and slowly climbed aboard.

“I might as well have asked,” murmured Mitch. “He knew.” They went to see if they had any mail.