"I have not seen your amazing ship up close," said Nakja-Mur, "but Keje and Adar tell me of its wonders. Still, what can one ship do in the face of the Grik multitudes?" The word "multitudes" sounded bad, Matt thought with a sinking feeling.

"Not enough probably, by herself," he said flatly, "but a lot. The main thing Walker and her crew can do right now is help you prepare. And the first thing we need for that is fuel."

Walker swung at her anchor as the tide dragged her around until the busy, festive city of Baalkpan was off the port beam. It was totally dark and the lights cast an eerie, almost Oriental glow that reflected off the restless wave tops. Occasionally, sounds from shore reached Alan Letts as he leaned against the rail beside the number three gun. A party of men quietly worked on it, preparing to dismount it if they were allowed, so they could get at the balky traverse gear. Larry Dowden stopped by and spoke to Campeti, who supervised. ". . . in the morning . . ." was all Alan heard.

Screeching metal on metal and a string of obscenities came from the torpedo workshop. Letts was surprised to hear a hoarse Japanese shout respond to Sandison's tirade, followed by a crash of tools on the deck.

When there was no further sound or cry of alarm, he chuckled. "That Jap's either going to make the best torpedoman Bernie has, or get fed to the fish." It still struck him strange having a Jap help with any sort of weapon, but Jap torpedoes worked just fine. Maybe Shinya knew something about them. He knew about machines; that was why Letts had suggested the appointment in the first place. If he had to work—and everybody did—that was as good a place as any. He stretched. It was nice to be on deck, breathing real air without the sun blasting the skin right off him. He scratched his forearm, rolling a ball of parched skin under his fingernails. I'm starting to get just like the Mice, he thought. I can only come out after dark. God, I wish I was home.

Off to the west, lightning rippled through dark clouds. It'll probably rain, he thought dejectedly, and then I'll start to rot. There'd been several days of uninterrupted sunshine—hot, as usual—but it normally rained once or twice a day. He didn't know which he hated worse, the hot sun that burned his skin or the hot, miserable rain that caused his skin and everything else to rot and mildew. All things considered, he'd really rather be in Idaho.

He lit a cigarette and let it dangle between his lips like he'd seen others do. It was an affectation he imagined they got from movies, but it looked cool, so he did it. Wouldn't be long before there weren't any smokes, he reflected. That wouldn't bother him as much as others. But some of the things they were running low on were important to their very survival, and he didn't have the slightest idea where to get more. He was the officer in charge of supply, but unless the lemur monkeys, or whatever they were, came through, there was no supply for supplies. He was a whiz at organizing and allocating and sending requisition forms through proper channels. In the past, if the stuff came, it came. But if it didn't, they always managed to make do or get by because there was always something to make do with. If the snipes needed a new feed-water pump, he would pick one up at the yard in Cavite or from one of the destroyer tenders like Black Hawk. If it was "the only one left" and they were saving it for Peary or Stewart because their supply officers did them a favor, then he could roll up his sleeves and swap and bid with the best. But when it came to getting something that wasn't there and never had been, and the only choice was to produce it themselves, he didn't have a clue what to do. He hoped the captain did.

He glanced to his left when someone leaned against the rail a few feet away. It was that nurse, the other one, with the auburn hair, the one that never said much. Karen something. Karen Theimer.

"Hi," he said. She glanced at him, but then looked back at shore. She put a cigarette to her lips and drew in a lungful.

"What do you think's going on?" She gestured at the city.

Alan shrugged. "Big Chief Powwow," he answered with a grin. "How should I know? I'm a meager lieutenant jay gee. Mine's not to reason why.

I hope they come up with some supplies, though. Me being the supply officer, I always like to have supplies to be in charge of and, right now, there ain't much." She didn't grin or laugh, or say anything at all. She just took another puff. Standing so close, with the moon overhead and the flashes of lightning in the western sky, Alan was struck for the first time that she was really kind of cute. Of course, she and Lieutenant Tucker might be the only human females in the world—talk about a supply problem! He guessed it wouldn't be long before she started to look good if she had a face like a moose.

"I haven't been much help," she said matter-of-factly. "I've been having . . . a tough time adjusting to what's happened. I always led a sheltered life and thought becoming a Navy nurse would be a huge adventure." She looked at him for the first time, and her lips formed a small, desolate smile. "I guess I was right. I have to try harder, though. Lieutenant Tucker's right. If any of us are going to survive we're all going to have to pitch in, and in ways we might not expect. Everything's changed, and I have to figure out a different way of looking at things. Going across to the Lemurian ship scared me to death." She shuddered. "I mean, they're like . . . aliens from another planet! Like Martians. Add in all the carnage of the aftermath of battle and I guess I didn't handle it very well. But I did learn that being a Navy nurse doesn't mean just being a Navy nurse anymore.

Do you know what I mean?" She suddenly pulled her hair. "God, why am I even telling you this? You're just some guy."

He looked at her and sighed, chagrined. "Yeah. I'm just `some guy.' Maybe that's been my problem all along. I think I do know what you mean, and I'm ashamed of myself. I've been wallowing in my `meager supply officer' status so long it never occurred to me that might mean something different now too. It took me longer than you to figure that out, though. Thanks."

She smiled at him, and this time he saw her dimples in the light of the city. "My name's Karen Theimer. What's yours, Lieutenant?"

Lieutenant Benjamin Mallory and Lieutenant (j.g.)

Perry Brister sat on chairs in Jim Ellis's cramped quarters on USSMahan waiting for him to wake.

Ellis's fever had finally broken the night before, and Pam Cross assured them he'd be fine—he just had to sleep it off. And so they waited, playing hand after hand of acey-deucey on the tiny table between them.

Eventually, a groggy groan escaped the patient and he slowly came awake.

His eyes seemed confused when he saw them, but he smacked his lips and croaked: "Thirsty."

In seconds the nurse appeared with a cup of water. "Here," she said in her brusque Brooklyn way. "Drink." Jim drank. When he spoke again, his voice was more normal.

"How long?" he asked simply.

"Almost two weeks since the fever hit. How much do you remember?"

Brister asked.

"Not much," Jim admitted and tried to rise, but his expression contorted with pain and he settled back. "But I do remember that crazy bastard Kaufman shot me!"

It all came flooding back: the dinosaurs on Bali, the mysterious contact in the strait, the urgent signal for him to take Mahan east—which he did, but not for long. What was the point? There were dinosaurs on Bali!

He didn't know what was going on, but there'd been no Japanese ships or planes since they came through the Squall, and he had a hunch there wouldn't be. He decided to turn around, to go back and rejoin Walker.