It turned toward him again, this time without hesitation. The pilot, or someone, had spotted him. It approached swiftly, descending. It passed him in a whoosh of wind, very, very closely. He glimpsed the pilot, a blond hatless young man, and, staring from the left-hand portholes, passengers craning to see. The plane climbed with a throb of quiet power, circled, and made another pass.

Mitch swept his arm around the horizon, pantomiming search. Start looking, damn you. Start!

Instead, the pilot drew a wing aloft and returned once again, nose high and very slow. When the aircraft was ghosting along at eye level, fifty feet from Mitch, the pilot pointed to his microphone, then southeast toward Tahiti, and banked northwest to Bora Bora.

“No!” yelled Mitch. “No, you son of a bitch! Search yourself."

He watched the plane climb, wiggling its wings, and finally disappear in the haze to the west. He descended the shrouds slowly. The plane probably had fuel only for Bora Bora and return, and that was it. But at least the word was out, someone knew, and soon he would see the French Navy.

He went below to turn up the radio. He stopped, aghast. There was blood on the galley lockers, pools of it on the galley deck, broken glass from a whiskey decanter, and a pot upturned on the stove. M. le Chat glared up at him from over the body of the biggest copra rat Mitch had ever seen. The cat worried it into a corner and faced Mitch defiantly. Grimacing, Mitch picked up the body by the tail. It weighed at least a pound. He hurled it through the hatch and heard it splash impressively. The cat regarded him with pure hatred.

“Good boy,” said Mitch, too late. If luck aboard Linda Lee was changing, he had been a fool to frustrate it. “Bon chat!” he said again. He promised to feed it soon. He was not forgiven. The cat stalked forward to sulk on Lindy’s bunk.

He called Papeete Radio, in case the pilot’s report had already filtered through and triggered action there. He got no answer. He was, apparently, still blocked by Moorea. He left the volume high and went topside.

He continued to search and waited for help.

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

She awakened crashing to the cabin floor. For an instant she could not recall where she was. She was suddenly rolled across the passageway to the foot of the port bunk, bruising her elbow. A pillow fell on her face. “Mitch!” she yelled.

There was no answer from topside. She sat up. A dim light filtered through the skylight, as if it were already twilight, but time was out of kilter, it must still be early in the afternoon. Bracing herself against the horrible roll, she struggled to her knees and flicked on the reading light above the starboard bunk. It was 4:20 on the bulkhead clock.