“Tonight, then. Hopefully.”

Tashi retires to his cabin in the right hull. Sandy has the dawn to himself. Gentle offshore breeze blowing. Tash had the tiller and sail set perfectly, even in his sleep. Sandy can see Catalina to the north behind him, and San Clemente Island poking up over the horizon to the south, perhaps another ten or fifteen miles ahead.

The stars and satellites wink out. Color comes to sea and sky. The sun rises over the mountains behind San Diego. Morning at sea. Sandy thinks about his usual schedule and feels blessed. Hiss and slap of water under the hulls. So peaceful. Maybe it’s true, what Jim always says; there was a better way of life, once, a calmer way. Not in OC, of course. OC sprang Athena-like, full blown from the forehead of Zeus Los Angeles. But somewhere, somewhere.

Midmorning Tash comes up, they eat oranges and make cheese sandwiches. They sail around San Clemente Island just to pass the day. It’s strange: scrub-covered, except where erosion has ripped out raw dirt watersheds, the hills are everywhere littered with wrecked amphibious landers, tanks, helicopters, troop carriers. And the west side, the side away from the mainland, is heavily pocked with bomb craters. Top of one hill gone. Another is covered by a mass of concrete, from which springs scores of radar masts and other protuberances.

“Is it really a good idea to pick up sixty liters of illegal aphrodisiac right under the Navy’s nose?” Tash inquires.

“Purloined letter principle. They’ll never expect it.”

“They won’t have to! Those surveillance arrays up there will probably analyze the goods by molecular weight. And hear our conversations.”

“So let’s not talk about it.”

Their instructions are to lay to, four miles directly west of the southernmost tip of the island. They do some compass work and establish triangulated landmarks that will keep them near the spot after dark.

The southwest end of the island is benched in a series of primordial beaches that terrace the hills a hundred feet high or more. They can see some goats on one terrace. “Those must be the most paranoid goats on earth,” Tash remarks. “Can you imagine their lives? Just peacefully eating sage, when suddenly wham bang, they’re being strafed and bombed again.”

Sandy can’t help but laugh. “Horrible! Can you imagine their world view? I mean, how do they explain it to each other?”

“With difficulty.”

“Like flies to small boys are we to the gods, or something like that.”

“I wonder if they have a civil defense program.”

“Something about as good as ours, no doubt. ‘Hey, here they come! Run like hell!’” They laugh. “Like flies to small boys … how does that go?”

“Need Jim here.”

Sandy nods. “He’d enjoy this, those benches and all.”

“Should have brought him instead of me.”

“He’s got class tonight.”

“So do I!”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to teach it.”