Cly jumped. The kid had moved so quietly, so quickly to come stand at his side — right under his lifted elbow. “What?”

“Let’s go inside!”

“I’m going, kid. I’m going.”

Behind them, Dr. Polk emerged from the path, mumbling something about how he ought to be in Ohio right now, but not sounding much like he meant it. Chester Fishwick was behind him, and Cly heard other voices bringing up the rear from the camp. Fang and Kirby Troost were on their way as well.

“We’re about to have a regular crowd,” he told Huey, bracing himself on the pier with one foot, and on the ship with his other. The craft felt firm underneath him, and when he left the pier completely to straddle the door, it bobbed only gently.

Inside the round door — which admitted him, but only if he crouched — a vertical row of slats functioned as a ladder. He didn’t need it. It took only one long step and half a hop to drop himself into the interior. From this vantage point he spied a smaller, more flexible ladder rolled up and stuffed to the right. He picked it up and tossed it out the door, letting it unfurl against the exterior.

While he listened to the scrambling patter of Houjin’s hands and feet against the wood dowel rungs, he surveyed the bridge. All things being equal, it was only a little smaller than the Naamah Darling’s seating area, though the ceiling was lower, and of course the captain’s chair wasn’t tailored to his height.

Inside the craft, the architectural details were more prominent and less delicately concealed than they would’ve been in an airship, for few people would be subject to seeing them in a war machine such as this. Every exposed edge, every low beam, and every unfinished surface declared that this was a workhorse, not a passenger ship.

“Work sea horse,” he said aloud to himself.

Houjin answered him anyway, dropping down off the ladder with a thud that gave the vessel a slight quiver. “Sea horse? Maybe that’s what they should’ve called it. Why’d they call it Ganymede, anyway?”

“I don’t know. I doubt the fellows outside know either — they didn’t name it. I don’t even know what a Ganymede is,” the captain confessed.

“Who.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Ganymede was a who. He was a prince of Greece — kidnapped by Zeus, and brought to Olympus on the back of an eagle. He became the cup-bearer of the gods,” the boy said off the top of his head.

“Oh.”

“But I don’t know what that has to do with this ship.”

“I don’t either,” the captain admitted. “But look at this thing, will you?”

“I’m looking, sir. I’m looking. This, over here—,” he said, waving his arms at a central column that disappeared up into the ceiling. “What’s this part?”

Cly consulted his memory of the diagram. “I think it’s a viewing device. It cranks up and down, see that wheel over there? Try that, and see if it does anything.”

“Why does it crank up and down?”

“There are mirrors inside. It lets you look out on the surface without bringing the ship all the way up out of the water. Or that’s the theory.”

“Brilliant!” Houjin declared. He inspected the column, poked at the wheel, ran his fingers across some of the buttons and knobs … and with a deft, instinctive tug, he deployed the mirrored scope.

Cly almost stopped him — almost reached out and cried, No! But he withdrew, letting the boy inspect the scope, and turned his own attention to the bridge.

Over his head, the curved window sloped. He dropped his shoulders and leaned forward to cut his height by half a foot, and nudged the swiveling chair to the right so he could step sideways past it. He examined the console, touching its buttons. He tapped at one label, screwed onto the surface above one of the nearer, more prominent levers. DEPTH was all it read. And a series of marks scratched below it notched off feet, or yards, or fathoms. The captain had no idea exactly what they designated, for they were not marked with any corresponding numbers.

A ratcheting noise drew his attention.

He looked over his shoulder and saw Houjin walking in a circle, his face smashed up against a visor. “I can see it, sir!”

“See what?”

“The pier! The woods — or, the what-did-they-call-it?”

“Bayou.”

“The bayou! And … oh…” He paused with near reverence. “Sir, I think I see alligators — real ones, up close this time. Are they real dark, almost black? And do they look like they’re made of old leather? And do they have eyes on top of their heads, that stick out of the water?”

“Sounds to me like you’re answering your own question.” Cly smiled, returning his attention to the console — but only for a moment. More footsteps and the climbing crawl of hands announced a newcomer, Troost. And behind him, Fang.

“Get a look at this, will you?” Troost said. He jabbed a thumb at the exposed metal beams, curved like ribs — like they were really within a whale, and could call themselves Jonah. “Not a lot of creature comforts went into this thing.”

“It’s not meant to be comfortable,” Cly told him. He pushed at the captain’s chair, which had been furnished with a leather pad in the shape of a cushion. It looked approximately as soft as an old book.

Fang joined Cly at the console, investigating the controls and the seats as Cly had before him, occasionally pausing over a set of lights or buttons, or a handwritten note stuck beside a switch with a daub of glue. He indicated one, scrawled on rough pulp paper. It read, forward charges — top two/aft charges — bottom two.

Cly scanned it and said, “Charges. Must have something to do with the weapons system. I’m sure it’ll all make sense in time.”

Fang showed him another note, mounted on another glob of adhesive.

“Diesel-electric transmission/propeller,” he read. “That’s almost self-explanatory, ain’t it?”

The first mate nodded, but swept his hand across the controls.

“Yeah, more notes. These fellows, they’ve been figuring it out as they go along.”

“You’ve got that right,” said Deaderick Early from the doorway. He lifted up his knees and climbed onto the round rim of the opening. He did not descend to join them, but spoke from where he was perched. “After McClintock died, and Watson was gone … we had to sort it out from scratch. We’ve messed up a lot, and we even scuttled her once by accident.”

“Ah,” said Cly. “That’s the extra smell. It’s old water.”

“We pumped her out as best we could, and left her open to dry — but there’s only so much to be done about it. She doesn’t leak,” he added quickly. “She’s just hard to clean. Inside, there’s not anything much that’ll rot. The designers got that part right. Everything you see can be swabbed down, and shouldn’t get too nasty. I’d worry about rust, but the special paint they used in here protects it pretty well. The electric system is built into the walls, sealed off tight, and the diesel engine — and the propulsion mechanics — are also cordoned off. You’d need a fuse and a keg of powder to soak it down.”

Houjin was still facefirst in the mirrorscope mechanism. He swiveled it toward Deaderick and announced, “The top of your head is huge! I mean, it looks huge. From here.”

Early laughed. “You got that working right quick, didn’t you?” He stretched up out of the doorway and waved with one hand.

Houjin waved back. “It’s amazing! And it’s all done with mirrors?” Before Deaderick could answer, he asked, “Did Mr. Worth set this up, too? Did he just make the mirrors, or did he design the scope, or did someone else do all that?”

“Mr. Worth didn’t make it, but he’s the man who told us how it works. He also improved it a bit, adjusting the angle of the mirrors and changing a few of the searching gears. What you see now, when you see Ganymede,” he said, blinking back some deep internal pain, and talking past it, “is dozens of men, working together, building on the knowledge of the men who came before us. The ship was working when McClintock died, and it was working when we first dredged it up from the bottom of the lake. But in the last six months, as we’ve been forced to figure out how it works … we’ve also figured out how to make it better.”