Utter fatigue finally forced him to turn in, but before he did, he ordered Jim to shut down one of Mahan's boilers. Walker would keep both hers lit, just in case, but henceforth, they would conserve fuel any way they could. It was all he could do. Perhaps after some sleep he would think of something. Maybe he'd wake from this terrible dream and find that all he had to worry about, once more, was the Japanese. He stripped off his sweat-sodden uniform and lay on his bunk. The small, rattling, oscillating fan on the bulkhead labored to move the dank, stifling air. He was so very tired, but a vast tension clutched his chest. Even as he reached to turn off the light, the ghosts and monsters of the last few days began to gather around.

Captain Reddy was sitting in his chair on the bridge when the forenoon watch came on at 0800. The familiar routine of the watch change had a soothing effect that helped dispel the unpleasant aftereffects of unremembered nightmares that had plagued his sleep. Lieutenant Garrett relieved Larry Dowden, who immediately went in search of a cool place to rest. Garrett looked like he'd had a difficult night too, and he acted for a moment as if he had something to say. But then he stepped onto the port bridgewing where Courtney Bradford stood. The Australian was waiting impatiently for the morning fog to disperse so he could view Bali's wonders once more. Matt stood and stretched, and then went back to stare at the chart. He heard the sound of someone climbing the ladder at the rear of the pilothouse and checked his watch. Right on time.

"Morning, Jim."

"Morning, sir," Jim Ellis replied.

"Sleep well?" Jim made a wry face and stifled a yawn, theatrically. Matt chuckled. "Look, I've made a decision you're not going to like, but I don't see any alternative." Matt's former exec looked at him questioningly. "I'm going to take Walker to Surabaya and have a look around. If everything's as it should be, we'll still have fuel for a slow run to Australia. If the . . . phenomenon has affected Surabaya like Bali, we can only assume the same is true for Perth, if not the whole world. If that's the case . . . Well, we'll figure out what to do. If Surabaya's unchanged, or we run into Japs, we'll turn around and collect you. Mahan will remain here until then. I'll leave three of the nurses and all the most seriously wounded with you." He grimaced. "I know you're shorthanded, so I won't leave you the prisoner to guard, but I will inflict Captain Kaufman on you. Maybe you can get some work out of him. I think his lieutenant will be a help, at least." He motioned toward Bradford. "I don't know whether to leave him here to gawk at the animals or take him along. He might prove useful again if we have to scrounge for fuel."

"I don't like you leaving, sir, but it sounds like as good a plan as any. Mahan would just slow you down and give you something else to worry about in a fight." Jim grinned. "As for Mr. Bradford, I'd just as soon you take him. I'd have to watch him constantly to keep him from swimming ashore, sea monsters or not. As you said, if I don't have men to guard a Jap, I sure can't keep up with him."

Matt chuckled. "Very well. We might as well get started. If we're not back in three days, proceed to Perth alone. Alor will be our rally point. If we don't meet you there . . . we're not coming."

The unusual mists had mostly cleared by the time the personnel were transferred and Walker's anchor chain clanked and rattled through the hawse and into the well. The special sea and anchor detail directed a spray of seawater from the fire hose on the chain as it came aboard. Matt stepped out on the starboard bridgewing and peered at the enigmatic Menjangan. He noticed the wind had begun to swing the bow toward it, now that the anchor had cleared the bottom.

"Starboard engine ahead slow." He spoke quietly, but his voice carried to the helmsman.

"Starboard ahead slow, aye," confirmed Tony Scott. Matt sighed. The routine of ship handling soothed the tension of their predicament. The anchor came aboard as the ship twisted to maintain her position and the men on the fo'c'sle leaned against the safety chains to hose the mud and weed off the anchor. It was a procedure he'd witnessed many times, but for the first time he truly appreciated the efficient and matter-of-fact way the deck-apes accomplished it. He was glad to see that no matter what happened, some things never changed. Things like duty.

Suddenly the intercom buzzed, and the bridge talker opened the circuit to the lookout, Alfred Vernon, in the crow's nest.

"Bridge! I have a surface target! Bearing three five zero! Range . . . damn! It's hard to tell. The mist is still heavy in the strait. I make it six zero, double zero! Whatever it is, it's big!" Vernon's voice was pitched high with excitement.

"Sound general quarters!" shouted Matt. "Signal Mahan to head for the rally point. We'll . . . distract whoever it is and catch up tonight!"

In the aft fireroom, Spanky had just returned the coffeepot to its place near the burner when the general alarm sounded. Then the bells rang up AHEAD FLANK and all hell broke loose. He dropped his cup reaching for something to hold on to, and it shattered. The stern crouched down as the big screws bit and Walker surged ahead. The Mice and the water tender worked frantically to keep water out of the turbines. The blowers roared and raw fuel gushed straight into the stacks. Isak swore when the coffeepot fell to the deck, sending scalding liquid sloshing across his legs. Men scampered about, sliding the loosened deck plates back where they belonged as the ship picked up speed, but began settling back into a relatively normal and only slightly nerve-racking acceleration.

Spanky looked around at the aftermath of chaos and wiped sweat from his brow as he checked for blown gauges. "Bloody hell!" he muttered. "I guess the Skipper didn't take the hint when I asked him to take it easy."

Chack-Sab-At was sulking. High in the air, at the very top of the first great wing—almost a hundred fifty tails above the main deck of Salissa Home—he could concentrate on nothing but his rejection. He should have known. Selass had flirted with him only as a means of attracting Saak-Fas, first son of the clan chief controlling the center, and most prestigious, of Home's three wings. He realized now, with a measure of embarrassed bitterness, that he'd fallen for her ruse, as had his rival. Her pretense of favor easily convinced Saak-Fas to take her to mate before it came Chack's turn to choose. No matter. He was young and not without prospects. He had a wide choice of eligible mates. He was a first son also, and though his sister was older and closer in line to succeed their mother as clan chief of the forward wing, he expected to go far. He was the best wing runner on all Salissa Home and when a new Home was built in a season or two, he would climb to the top of its center wing and become fas chief himself.

Or maybe not, he corrected himself glumly.

Selass might truly dislike him enough to see to it that her father, the High Chief of Salissa, did not grant him that honor. It wasn't unheard of. The hereditary nature of the wing "nobility" was rarely interfered with, and each of the three wing clans of Home was virtually autonomous. Except, of course, in how they cooperated with the other clans to move Home from place to place. If a clan chief were incompetent, or unable to agree with one or both of the other wing clans—or the Body of Home clan, for that matter—the succession could be altered. High Chiefs always rose from the Body of Home clan and were supposedly impartial to the bickering among the wings. They had the power to confirm or deny all successions and, indeed, the power to banish.