him out to fish," Twisp said. "If I believed in luck, I'd say he was bad luck. But he's a damned nice kid."
"I heard about you losing your gear and your catch," Gerard said. "What're you going to do?" He nodded toward where Brett sat watching them. "His folks have money."
"So he says," Twisp said. He balanced the cups for his return to the table. "See you."
"Good fishing," Gerard said. It was an automatic response and he frowned when he realized he'd said it to a netless fisherman.
"We'll see," Twisp said and returned to the table. He noted that the action of the deck underfoot had picked up slightly. Could be a storm coming.
They sipped quietly at their chocolate and Twisp felt the boo settling his nerves. From somewhere in the quarters behind the counter someone played a flute and someone else tapped out a back-up on water drums.
"What were you two talking about?" Brett asked.
"You."
Brett's face flushed noticeably under the dim lights of the coffeehouse. "What ... what were you saying?"
"Seems everybody but me knew about you being from downcenter. That's why you don't like dead furniture."
"I got used to the coracle," Brett said.
"Not everybody can afford organics ... or wants them," Twisp said. "It costs a lot to feed good furniture. And organics don't make the best small boats because they can go wild when they get into a school of fish. The subs are specially designed to prevent that."
Brett's mouth began to twitch into a smile. "You know, when I first saw your boat and heard you call it a coracle, I thought 'coracle' meant 'carcass.'"
They both laughed, Twisp a little unsteadily from the boo.
Brett stared at him. "You're drunk."
Chapter 6
Mimicking Brett's tone, Twisp said, "Kid, I am getting dowright inebriated. I may even have another boo."
"My folks do that after an art show," Brett said.
"And you didn't like it," Twisp said. "Well, kid, I am not your folks - neither one of 'em."
A hooter went off just outside the Ace of Cups hatchway. The wall pulsed with the blast of sound.
"Wavewall!" Brett shouted. "Can we save your boat?" Brett was already up and headed out of the coffeehouse in a press of pale-faced fishermen.
Twisp lurched to his feet and followed, motioning to Gerard not to dog the hatch. The deck outside already was awash from a few low breakers. The passage was filled with people lurching and splashing toward hatchways. Twisp shouted at Brett's retreating back far up the passage, "Kid! No time! Get inside!"
Brett didn't turn.
Twisp found an extruded safety line and worked himself along it out onto the rim. Lights glared out there, throwing high contrast onto scurrying people, contorted faces. People were shouting all around, calling out names. Brett was out on the fishboat slip tossing equipment into the coracle's cubby and lashing it down. As Twisp came up to him, Brett lashed a long line to the coracle's bow cleat. The wind howled across them now and waves were breaking over the outer bubbly of the slip, filling the normally protected lagoon with frothing white water.
"We can sink it and haul it up later!" Brett shouted.
Twisp joined him, thinking that the kid had learned this lesson from listening to some of the old-timers. Sometimes it worked and certainly it was the only chance they had to save the coracle. All along the slip, other boats had been sunk, their lines dipping down sharply. Twisp found a store of ballast rocks near the slip and began passing the heavy load to Brett, who tossed them into the boat. The five-meter craft was almost awash. Brett jumped in and lashed a cover over the ballast.
"Open the valves and jump!" Twisp yelled.
Brett reached under the load. A strong jet of water pulsed up from the bottom. Twisp reached a long arm toward Brett just as the wavewall itself swept over the lagoon and crashed into the side of the sinking coracle. Brett's outstretched fingertips grazed Twisp's hand as the coracle went under. The line to the bow, passing across Twisp's right arm, played out in a wet hiss. Twisp grabbed it, burning his palms, yelling: "Brett! Kid!"
But the lagoon was a boil of white rage and two other fishermen grabbed him and forced him, soaked and still shouting, down the passage and through the hatch into the Ace of Cups. Gerard, in his motorized chair, dogged the hatch against the incoming sea behind them.
Twisp clawed at the resilient wool. "No! The kid's still out there!"
Someone