There was nothing to do but walk east along the canal and look for the skiff. He listened, thinking for an instant that he heard an engine, wondering how far south of Highway 9 they were. It would be a long walk through the fields, maybe five miles.

He put his hand on her shoulder, and she opened her eyes, focusing on him slowly, but sitting up at once, looking around with jerky head movements to the coarse grass, the muddy bank below, palmettos on the opposite side.

“Welcome back to the world,” he said.

She sniffed. “It sure ain’t California.”

“Is that a plus or a minus?”

“Please.” She put a wrist to her forehead, remembering. “Where’s the skiff?”

He shrugged. “Could be a few hundred yards off. Could be sunk.”

“What’d you hit anyway? Smack a log?” She put her head between her knees. “Some navigator you are.”

He looked at her a long time. “How’s your head?”

“How you think it is?” she snapped.

“I think it’s up your ass.”

She looked at him carefully then. “What?”

“I mean, I pull your bitchy butt out of the canal and next thing I know, you blame me for putting it in the canal.” He turned away.

She grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “Who hit the log?”

“What, I got X-ray vision so I can see a canal bottom at midnight?”

“Aggg, I’m too sick to argue.” She lay back in the grass and put a forearm over her eyes.

He looked down the canal. “Come on, let’s walk the bank.”

“I can’t. I feel like I might throw up.”

He put his hand on her back and leered into her face, “You’ll never get your strength back if you don’t work.”

“You bastard,” she said, with the slightest sign of a smile.

He stood up as quickly as he was able and cocked his head like a spaniel. “You hear that?”

“What is it?”

“Shhh.” The thin thread of an outboard’s hum came to him over the water. “It’s a boat, and it’s running slow.” They made their way down to the water’s edge and Paul leaned out.

“Can you see anything?”

“Yeah. It’s a big aluminum hull, one of those homemade jobs the Partians build.” In five minutes the boat came abreast, shoved by a smoking outboard running without a cowl, and Paul shouted out, “Hey!”

The old man leaning on the steering wheel saw him at once. It was his silly uncle, Octave. He steered into the bank and cut the engine. “What the hell you doing out here in them bushes?” He squinted at them over his cigarette. “You been playin’ in the mud?” He handed Colette into the boat.

“Did someone send you out to get us?” Paul grunted as he swung a leg into the bow.