Moonstar by David Gerrold Read Free Book Online Page B

now! Mama!” The moment was painfully clear—it was that imperative frozen slice in which all the world crystallizes into a perfectly understood image. Jobe perceived it as accurately and brightly delineated as if she were a camera. She was going to die. She was going to drown. She was being pulled out to sea—she could fight it, flailing helplessly against the current, and she would drown even faster. She would tire and the water would fill her lungs, and the pain would be unbelievable—of course, there would be pain—and the cold darkness would creep in around the edges, her struggles would slow into ballet-movements and death would fade her into puzzled oblivion.
    And in that same moment, she was thinking of the pain it would bring to her family. Oh, Mama, no!” And also the terrible recriminations that would be focused on Potto—
    â€œPotto! Help!”
    But what could Potto do? Could she swim out here? Then she would be caught in the riptide too—and both of them would drown.
    Potto could get the boat.
    And with that thought, she stopped swimming, and resumed treading water. Even in the throes of sudden panic, the mind still insists on working logically, and homes unerringly on the best possible solution.
    â€œPotto! Help! Potto!” Jobe yelled as hard as she could. She could barely see the spit anymore, she was being swept out to sea too fast. She yelled and waved her arms.
    Then, her mind still churning, she realized that her only hope was to stay afloat until Potto could reach her. She arched her back, forced herself to relax, and floated on top of the water, moving her arms gently but steadily to keep her head toward the shore.
    â€œIt’s just a matter of time,” she told herself. “As long as I can stay afloat, Potto can reach me.” Her fear was beginning to subside now—she hadn’t swallowed any water, she was still alive, all she had to do was float. Potto would come and get her. She stroked the water a little faster so she would not get too far away. She kicked lightly too. The situation was under control, she told herself; she started counting now, counting her strokes. Potto would be here before she hit one hundred. Let’s see, Potto should have pushed the catamaran into the water now and should even be past the breakers. She should be just starting the little motor that was mounted at the stern between the two pontoons, specifically for emergencies or moving against wind. Both cases applied here, Jobe was being pulled westward; she stroked a little harder—not too hard though, don’t want to get tired. If I’ve been swept too far out, she thought, it’ll take Potto a little longer. She resumed counting. Maybe she would have to count to two hundred.
    At three hundred, she stopped counting, puzzled. Where was Potto?
    She stopped floating, let her feet sink below her till she was treading water again, then turned and looked at the shore—
    â€”her feet touched bottom then and she was only chest high in the water. Dazed, and not quite understanding, she began walking toward the beach, fighting the push and tug of the waves. Potto was cleaning fish way up on the spit; the catamaran was high and dry beside her. She looked up, saw Jobe coming out of the water and waved.
    It was the floating, Jobe realized. By floating, she had raised herself above the current. Instinctively, she had done the right thing, and it had brought her back to shore.
    But she was tired now—exhausted. The surge of adrenalin had faded, leaving only a drained feeling. Although the water was only at her waist, she could barely fight it anymore—she was sobbing and the tears were running down her cheeks, even saltier than the sea. “Potto. . .!” she wailed, and the older child looked up curiously, then came running, sensing from Jobe’s tone that something was wrong.
    Jobe managed to stay on her feet, wavering, until Potto was close