Keje-Fris-Ar was sovereign over them all and literally held the power of life and death. If he began to dislike Chack, life—which until that very morning had seemed so full of promise—might reveal progressively more disappointment as time went by. Subconsciously, Chack knew Keje was a good and benevolent ruler. He would not countenance any personal vendetta based on a scornful daughter's whim. But Chack felt sorry for himself, and he was in no mood to limit the depths of his misery. It didn't help that, try as he might, he couldn't shake the vision of Selass's soft silver fur and green eyes from his mind.

He glanced far below at the surface of Home and saw the many Body of Home people performing their daily chores: salting fish from the morning drag or tending the plants that grew from under the protective overhangs ranged entirely around Salissa. Life went on as it did every day, day after day, during fair-weather times. The People were happily heedless of his puny disappointment, for the People were happy, for the most part. Few water monsters were a threat to anything as large as Home, and only the worst storms were noticed. The only threats were the rare mountain fish, land, and of course, the Grik.

Mountain fish were few and encountered only in the deepest regions of the Great Seas, where Homes of the People rarely ventured. Land was easily avoided. The Sky Priests, with their mystical instruments and scrolls, saw to that. If weather hindered the path they decreed, the sharp eyes of the wing-tip watchers—the post that Chack stood—would see danger in time for the Body of Home clan to deploy the great fins that could move them against all but the most furious sea. If even that failed, then they had the huge copper feet, two at each end of Home, that could be dropped into the sea attached to a great cable. There had never been a blow—not even a strakka—that could conquer the feet.

The People really feared only the Grik. The Grik were the Ancient Enemy, who cast them from paradise long ago. So long had it been that even to the Sky Priests, it was just "Long Ago." But the People escaped the Grik, and it had been so long since any had been seen that they'd become creatures of legend, of myth, of nightmare—boogeymen to frighten younglings into performing their chores. If they did exist, they dwelt safely across the Western Ocean, upon which no vessel could pass. That was what the People believed for generation upon generation—until the Grik came again and an ancient, almost instinctual dread was revived.

They hadn't been long in these waters, but there were more of them all the time, and they were liable to appear anywhere in their ridiculously small and fragile Homes. Homes that only a few hundred could travel upon, but Homes that were amazingly fleet and maneuverable and had very sharp teeth. Homes that always attacked. In Chack's first seven seasons, he'd seen only one of their tiny Homes, and it had attacked them— only to be beaten off. But the shock of that day lingered still. That such a small thing with such frightening creatures would attack without thought or warning—and with such dreadful ferocity—still troubled his sleep. The next seven seasons carried him into young adulthood, and he'd seen no less than six more Grik Homes. Each time one appeared, it attacked without fail. They never managed to do more than inflict minor damage, but always a few of the People were slain repelling them. One such had been Chack's father. It made no sense. The Grik had to be at least a little intelligent, else they couldn't have built the fast little ships. But to attack Homes of the People from their much smaller craft was like flasher-fish against gri-kakka. They could wound, but nothing more. The priests taught that Grik were creatures of the land. Perhaps that explained their madness.

Chack didn't pretend to understand them, any more than he understood the treachery of females. He glanced at his sister, Risa, on the wing support a dozen tails beneath him. She watched him with concern in her large amber eyes—and impatience. He knew Risa loved him; she was his very best friend. But she also thought he took things much too seriously. She made a joke of everything except her duty, but there was a difference between giving and taking a joke—and becoming one. Her body language told him more than words ever could: he was acting a fool. He blinked rueful acknowledgment and resumed scanning the skyline. They were in a confined area and as good as the priests were at laying a course, it was instilled in wing-tips from birth that they could never be too careful. Besides, it was in confined areas that the Grik usually chose to attack.

He was studying the hazy shoreline with just that thought in mind when he first saw something strange. A large puff of black smoke appeared above the haze that lingered between the small island and the large one. There was a sudden impression of rapid motion and a white froth grew on the water. A smallish shape, advancing impossibly fast, appeared atop the foam, under a diminishing cloud of smoke. He clung to his perch for a few moments more with his jaw hanging slack. Nothing could move that fast! He blinked his eyes. Of course it could. He saw it. He reached over and grabbed a line.

"The Grik! The Grik come!" he shrieked at the top of his lungs, and dropped down the rope toward the surprised and alarmed upturned faces.

"I can't tell yet!" answered Vernon in the crow's nest to another urgent query. "There's too much haze," he continued excitedly. "It's big, though. God, it's big! Bigger than that cruiser we tangled with!"

Dowden clambered up the ladder to the pilothouse, wiping sleep from bleary eyes. "What is it, Captain?"

"Don't know yet, Larry. Something in the strait." Matt smiled grimly. "Sorry to wake you. I have the conn, Mr. Garrett. Take your station, if you please. Torpedoes?" Ensign Sandison scrambled to his position at the starboard torpedo director.

"They're ready, Captain."

"All stations manned and ready, sir," supplied the talker.

Matt brought his binoculars to his eyes. The haze in the strait was still thick, but it was thinning rapidly under the combined assault of the fully risen sun and a freshening breeze. Even on the bridge they could see a large dark shape, and it did appear larger than Amagi. Matt knew then that all their toil, sacrifice, and suffering, the gallantry and heroism of his fine crew, had been for nothing. Whatever lay ahead could only be a very large Japanese ship, and as soon as it saw them they would die. His only plan was to gain the attention of the enemy, fire Walker's last torpedoes and run like hell under a cloud of smoke back in the direction of Surabaya. Maybe they could distract it from Mahan and the other destroyer would escape.

The talker asked the lookout to repeat himself. "Captain?" he said hesitantly. "Vernon says he's a little above the haze now and he can see a fair amount of the target, which is also above the haze. He says it ain't no Jap warship he ever saw. It ain't nothin' he ever heard of."

"Explain!" snapped Matt. Every eye in the pilothouse was fixed upon the talker.

"Sir, he says it's got sails."

All binoculars were instantly in use as the bridge crew scrutinized the apparition more closely. Sails. Whatever it was, it was huge and it had sails. Lieutenant Garrett's voice came over the comm, calling out range estimates and instructing his gun crews. "Range six four five oh. Bearing two five oh. Speed fo—four knots? Captain, I have a solution. Request permission to commence firing."

Captain Reddy tore his gaze from the ship that was rapidly resolving into something . . . remarkable, and strode to the intercom himself. "Negative, Mr. Garrett. I repeat, negative! Hold your fire. Continue to track the target, but hold your fire!" He looked at Sandison. "You too, Bernie." He returned to stand beside his chair and raised his binoculars again. Wind rushed in through the empty window frames and threatened to take his hat, but he didn't even notice. It was a ship, all right. Bigger than a battleship. Bigger than a carrier. Hell, it was bigger than anything he'd ever seen. And rising high in the air, at least three or four hundred feet, were three huge tripods that each supported enormous semi-rigid sails much like those of a junk, but bigger than any junk's that were ever conceived. "Engines slow to two-thirds. Left ten degrees rudder. Let's see what we have here."