Bernie glanced at Kells.
Kells said: “Thanks — no. We’ll get along.”
The Comet was a trim thirty-foot craft; mahogany and steel and glistening brass. She looked very fast.
Bernie switched on the running lights and started the engine. The man cast off the lines; Bernie spun the wheel over and they swung in a wide curve away from the float and out through the narrows to the cut that led to the outer bay.
The fog was broken to long trailing shreds. The swell was long, fairly easy.
Bernie snapped on the binnacle light. “I hope I ain’t forgot the course,” he said. “I think it’ll clear up when we get out a ways — but I’m usually wrong about fog.”
Borg said, “That’s dandy,” with dripping sarcasm.
Kells went down into the little cabin, lay down on one of the bunks and watched the red and green and yellow buoy lights slide swiftly by the portholes. After a while they rounded the breakwater and there weren’t any more lights to watch.
Kells was awakened by Bernie whispering: “We made it in an hour and fifty minutes.” Then Bernie went outside.
It was very dark. Borg was lying in the other bunk, groaning faintly.