He had been climbing down from the mast every fifteen minutes to drop something, anything floatable, overboard, for he had a gut-desire to mark his trail over the waste and to leave debris that might help her. Bunk pillows, spare timbers, life-jackets, were all strewn somewhere in his wake. Now he dumped his foam mattress overboard at the northwestern limit of his search. The southeastern limit was already marked with the strobe light and waving flag. He did not expect to find the mattress when and if he returned in six hours, but it seemed to add a needed punctuation to the track he was plowing.

Watching it, he wished instantly that he had not dropped it. It mocked his search. In less than thirty seconds it was out of sight, skidding downwind and dipping behind the purple swells. It reappeared, undulating lazily, and eased out of sight again, for keeps.

For an instant his guard dropped. He felt that she had no chance, not in these swells, none at all.

The terns swooped from aloft, apparently to inspect the invisible mattress. They discussed it in high piping voices and banked to the east. Something in their purposeful flight told him that they had given up, were returning to Moorea or, more likely, Marlon Brando’s island, Tetiaroa.

He was betrayed. He had been counting on them for a startled dive that would mean that they were investigating something in the swells below. He almost shouted after them to stay, or at least, if they saw her homeward-bound, to return and lead him to the spot.

He massaged his eyeballs. He was groggy with fatigue: hardly 7 A.M. and he was ready to yell at birds. He should really make the coffee.

Instead he climbed back aloft.

Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

He sat miserably in his office high above the city. Neatly centered on the desk before him lay the opened file on Roxon vs. Maguire, an accident case due for trial next week. His client had had whiplash.

The top sheaf was a deposition he had taken last year from the defendant. Beneath the deposition, layer upon layer, would lie reports: Form 555, California Highway Patrol, Marin County Sheriff Department Report, Report from County Emergency, with x-rays. There would be a Blue Cross Report, a Report from Attending Physicians, even a report from a chiropractor. There was somewhere a series of pictures of his client’s Coupe de Ville. A deposition from Ted, of Ted’s Body and Fender Shop, lay in the pile. A neat diagram Mitch had drawn himself lay somewhere several strata down: braking distance, position of witnesses, location of a traffic light, all carefully ruled, scaled, and frozen in time. Below that lurked a deposition from his client’s doctor and a Xerox of the defendant’s blood alcohol report.

The file was three inches thick. They seemed to get thicker every year.