"Ben, who's aloft?"
"Manuel."
"Have you chanced to look aft, the last half-hour, boy?"
"No. Watching the bow, so to keep the bearing you ordered."
"Then give me the helm, and take this glass"—Shawn's voice was rising curiously—"and look well abaft, and tell me what you see at all."
"Where away?"
"God damn it," said Shawn, still rather softly, "find it yourself!" He thrust the spyglass into Ben's hand and snatched the tiller, humming in his teeth and not pleasantly.
Ben searched the northwestern arc, and found nothing but empty sea. Something to throw him off his guard?—he lowered the glass quickly, but Shawn was not even watching him. Shawn was staring forward, head high, the moon's whiteness displaying his face, cold and suffering and proud.
"I don't find anything."
"Look again."