Mitch had been about to ask him the same question. Now, obviously, he couldn’t: the kid was as confused as he. He felt sorry for him. At least Linda Lee was his own, and insured: Star of Peace, financed by donation, was a product of years of toil and begging, and the property of the Green Peace Federation. She was not Graham’s to lose, and she couldn’t possibly be insured: even Lloyd’s wouldn’t touch her. Graham had women and the little girl, too. If Graham decided to go to sea, they would probably have to stay aboard: Mitch doubted that anyone had funds to fly them to Auckland.

Mitch shook his head dubiously and climbed halfway up the ladder to study the shore. He was looking for signs that the word was out, looking for natives, perhaps, lashing their palm-thatched roofs or boarding up their gaping, paneless homes. There was no activity at all, except for a crowd of people waiting on the Air Polynésie wharf for the ferry to the Tahiti plane. The lagoon, in the afternoon shade of the crags, was like a mirror.

But the swell was still rolling onto Te Avenui Pass, the only way out; rolling much too slowly, with an authority that indicated no mere local storm. He could not see the northern sky, for the crags of Mount Pahia towered above the anchorage. The sky above was clear, but that meant nothing: it might be twelve hours before the Golden Dragon’s mare’s tails appeared here, and then it would be too late to run.

Forward, a man and a girl, both nude, were see-sawing the Star’s incredible pump. Since her “collision,” Graham said, her bilges filled every four hours at anchor and every hour at sea. Planks had jarred loose along her garboard strake and the French hadn’t found all the leaks.

But Star’s leaks were not her greatest threat, now. Nothing she would hit enroute to New Zealand was likely to match the havoc right here if a typhoon hit. Here were no rivers to hide in, no bights or coves, just the mountains and valleys to anger the winds, and to seaward, low-lying motus and sandspits. If you dragged east you’d be hurled high and dry and if you dragged west you’d be splintered on the reefs. If you anchored and tried to ride it out aboard, no one could help you. A true sailor, if he had the guts, would probably head for open water while there was time.

If he had the guts. And valued the boat more than his life. Mitch looked at Linda Lee, swinging at the dock. He stepped back down.

“‘It is pleasant,’” he quoted, “’when the sea is high and the winds are dashing the waves about, to watch from shore the struggles of another.’ So said Lucretius. So say I.”

“You’ll stay.”