Say I will come to him. “Where am I?” he muttered. Not fit to be dust on your boots. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. To Spurlock's observing eye, Enschede's wrinkles multiplied and the folds in his clothes. She could hear him from the lower floor as he locked the gates and drew up the wooden part of the bridge.
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