Aug 169. He switched on one propulsion rotor and then the other; they scraped but then hummed smoothly. He switched them off, looked at the gauges and indicators, and switched the control lights off.
The cliff was the same as before. No members had sprung from hiding. He turned to the sea behind him; it was empty and flat, silvered in a narrowing path that ended under the nearly full moon. No boats were flying toward him. He sat in the boat for a few minutes, and then he climbed out of it and walked back to the cave. Lilac was standing outside it. 'Is it all right?' she asked. 'No, it's not,' he said. 'It wasn't left by traders because there's no message or anything in it. The clock stopped last year but it has a new rotor. I didn't try the lift rotor because of the sand, but even if it works, the skirting is cracked in two places and it may just wallow and get nowhere. On the other hand it may take us directly into '082—to a little seaside medicenter—even though it's supposed to be off telecontrol.' Lilac stood looking at him.
'We might as well try it though,' he said. 'If traders didn't leave it, they're not going to come ashore while it's sitting here. Maybe we're just two very lucky members.' He gave the flashlight to her.
He got the carton and the blanket-bundle from the cave and held one under each arm. They started walking toward the boat. 'What about the things to trade?' she said.
'We'll have if,' he said. 'A boat must be worth a hundred times more than cameras and first-aid kits.' He looked toward the cliff. 'All right, doctors!' he called. 'You can come out now!'
'Shh, don't!' she said.
'We forgot the sandals,' he said.
'They're in the carton.'
He put the carton and the bundle into the boat and they scraped the birdwaste from the broken windscreen with pieces of shell. They lifted the front of the boat and hauled it around toward the sea, then lifted the back and hauled again.
They kept lifting and hauling at either end and finally they had the boat down in the surf, bobbing and veering clumsily.
Chip held it while Lilac climbed aboard, and then he pushed it farther out and climbed in with her.
He sat down at the controls and switched on their lights. She sat in the seat beside him, watching. He glanced at tier-she looked anxiously at him—and he switched on the propulsion rotors and then the lift rotor. The boat shook violently, flinging them from side to side. Loud clankings banged from beneath it. He caught the steering lever, held it, and turned the speed-control knob. The boat splashed forward and the shaking and clanging lessened. He turned the speed higher, to twenty, twenty-five. The clanking stopped and the shaking subsided to a steady vibration. The boat scuffed along on the water's surface.
'It's not lifting,' he said.
'But it's moving,' she said.
'For how long though? It's not built to hit the water this way and the skirting's cracked already.' He turned the speed higher and the boat splashed through the crests of swells. He tried the steering lever; the boat responded. He steered north, got out his compass, and compared its reading with the direction indicator's. 'It's not taking us into '082,' he said.
'At least not yet.'
She looked behind them, and up at the sky. 'No one's coming,' she said.
He turned the speed higher and got a little more lift, but the impact when they scraped the swells was greater. He turned the speed back down. The knob was at fifty-six. 'I don't think we're doing more than forty,' he said. 'It'll be light when we get there, if we get there. It's just as well, I suppose; I won't get us onto the wrong island. I don't know how much this is throwing us off course.'
Two other islands were near Majorca: EUR91766, forty kilometers to the northeast, the site of a copper- production complex; and EUR91603, eighty-five kilometers to the southwest, where there was an algae-processing complex and a climatonomy sub-center.
Lilac leaned close to Chip, avoiding the wind and spray from the broken part of the windscreen. Chip held the steering lever. He watched the direction indicator and the moonlit sea ahead and the stars that shone above the horizon.
The stars dissolved, the sky began to lighten, and there was no Majorca. There was only the sea, placid and endless all around them.
'If we're doing forty,' Lilac said, 'it should have taken seven hours. It's been more than that, hasn't it?'
'Maybe we haven't been doing forty,' Chip said.
Or maybe he had compensated too much or too little for the eastward drift of the sea. Maybe they had passed Majorca and were heading toward Eur. Or maybe Majorca didn't exist—had been blanked from pre-U maps because pre-U members had 'bombed' it to nothing and why should the Family be reminded again of folly and barbarism?
He kept the boat headed a hairline west of north, but slowed it down a little.
The sky grew lighter and still there was no island, no Majorca. They scanned the horizon silently, avoiding each other's eyes.
One final star glimmered above the water in the northeast. No, glimmered on the water. No—'There's a light over there,' he said.
She looked where he pointed, held his arm.
The light moved in an arc from side to side, then up and down as if beckoning. It was a kilometer or so away.
'Christ and Wei,' Chip said softly, and steered toward it.
'Be careful,' Lilac said. 'Maybe it's-'
He changed hands on the steering lever and got the knife from his pocket, laid it in his lap.
The light went out and a small boat was there. Someone sat waving in it, waving a pale thing that he put on his head—a hat—and then waving his empty hand and arm. 'One member,' Lilac said.
'One person' Chip said. He kept steering toward the boat—a rowboat, it looked like—with one hand on the lever and the other on the speed-control knob. 'Look at him!' Lilac said.
The waving man was small and white-bearded, with a ruddy face below his broad-brimmed yellow hat. He was wearing a blue-topped white-legged garment.
Chip slowed the boat, steered it near the rowboat, and switched all three rotors off.
The man—old past sixty-two and blue-eyed, fantastically blue-eyed—smiled with brown teeth and gaps where teeth were missing and said, 'Running from the dummies, are you? Looking for liberty?' His boat bobbed in their sidewaves. Poles and nets shifted in it—fish-catching equipment. 'Yes,' Chip said. 'Yes, we are! We're trying to find Majorca.'
'Majorca?' the man said. He laughed and scratched his beard. 'Myorca,' he said. 'Not Majorca, Myorca! But Liberty is what it's called now. It hasn't been called Myorca for—God knows, a hundred years, I guess! Liberty, it is.'
'Are we near it?' Lilac asked, and Chip said, 'We're friends. We haven't come to—interfere in any way, to try to 'cure' you or anything.'
'We're incurables ourselves,' Lilac said.
'You wouldn't be coming this way if you wasn't,' the man said. 'That's what I'm here for, to watch for folks like you and help them into port. Yes, you're near it. That's it over there.' He pointed to the north.
And now on the horizon a dark green bar lay low and clear. Pink streaks glowed above its western half— mountains lit by the sun's first rays.
Chip and Lilac looked at it, and looked at each other, and looked again at Majorca-Myorca-Liberty. 'Hold fast,' the man said, 'and I'll tie onto your stern and come aboard.'
They turned in their seats and faced each other. Chip took the knife from his lap, smiled, and tossed it to the floor. He took Lilac's hands. They smiled at each other. 'I thought we'd gone past it,' she said. 'So did I,' he said. 'Or that it didn't even exist any more.' They smiled at each other, and leaned forward and kissed each other.
'Hey, give me a hand here, will you?' the man said, looking at them over the back of the boat, clinging with dirty-nailed fingers.
They got up quickly and went to him. Chip kneeled on the back seat and helped him over. His clothes were made of cloth, his hat woven of flat strips of yellow fiber. He was half a head shorter than they and smelled strangely and strongly. Chip grasped his hard-skinned hand and shook it. 'I'm Chip,' he said, 'and this is Lilac.'
