Hawke shut the narrow door behind him. The bright light from the porthole moved with the slow sway of the he pryacht. One moment the sun shone brightly on the officer’s long face. The next moment he was in sharp-edged darkness. Hawke did not blink in the direct light of the sun. He removed his headset and hung it over his shoulder.

There was a deck chair beside the bed. Kannaday did not invite him to sit. The captain swiveled his own chair toward the newcomer.

“You took your time getting here,” Kannaday said.

“I was busy with the repairs,” Hawke replied.

The man had a voice like sea spray. It was soft and feathery, a combination of his mother’s drawling Aborigine accent and his father’s lyrical Canadian inflection. Considering the setback they had suffered, it was also disturbingly confident and untroubled.

“What is the status of the lab?” Kannaday asked.

“The hole has been welded shut,” Hawke replied. “The area is free of leakage.”

“Leakage of seawater or radiation?” Kannaday asked.

“Both,” Hawke replied. “However, damage to the processing equipment has been extensive.”

“Are you saying the materials cannot be processed by the time we reach Cairns?” Kannaday said.

“That is correct,” Hawke informed him. He waited a moment, then asked, “Is there anything else?”

“Yes. You don’t seem very upset,” Kannaday said.

“I cannot change what is,” Hawke said.

“The chief did not want us ever coming into port with the cargo,” Kannaday reminded him.

“The only other option is to dump the drums,” Hawke said. “We have already radioed ahead for new equipment. It will be waiting at the compound when we arrive. We will sail in, collect the gear, then sail out.”

“Are you certain there are no other options?” Kannaday demanded. “Nothing we can jury-rig?”

“The destruction was extensive. You can get a radiation suit and go to the laboratory and look for yourself.” Hawke removed the headset from his shoulder. He held it forward. “Or you can ring Dr. Mett and ask him.”

“I’m asking you,” Kannaday said.

“Asking? It sounds as if you are accusing me,” Hawke said.

“Perhaps you’re feeling guilty,” Captain Kannaday said. “What is the problem, exactly?

Hawke’s unhappy gray eyes were fixed on the captain. He replaced the headset. “Even crude reprocessing requires nitric acid to dissolve the spent elements,” Hawke replied. “All of our containers were shattered in the explosion. We also need a functioning centrifuge to separate the remaining materials into daughter products. The blast dented the swing arms. They will not turn correctly. Our partner is expecting three pounds of enriched uranium in pellet form. Three hundred and fifty pellets, roughly. If we cannot distill the material, we cannot turn it over to our partner, nor he to his clients.” Hawke paused. He was beginning to seem restless, annoyed. “I feel obligated to add, Captain, that the crew feels we are lucky to still be afloat.”