Rio grinned.
“You’re a Christian, then.”
Martin stepped closer to him.
“I believe I am.”
The lights of a ship came up on the port bow. Martin crossed the deck and struck two bells. When he returned he spoke abstractedly.
“I’d like to find a quiet beach myself. A beach that walks with you in the daytime and sings with you at night.... A place to rest.... But I can’t rest.”
Rio became confused. He put his hands on Martin’s shoulders and for a second they stood motionless, like mildewed lovers in a gloom proportionately obscure. Then Rio whispered, “I’ll do my bit, my friend. I’ll take your last illusion.”
Martin saw the fluid, hurt eyes and the bitter smile. He struck Rio’s arms from his shoulders.
“How do you know that I still possess this ‘last illusion?’ ... Why do you follow me?... You call for the water and the heat. You’re part of the land we passed and of your buccaneering ancestors. That doesn’t include me. I’m a foreigner.”