Restoree by Anne McCaffrey Read Free Book Online Page B

as I swam and ahead of us the boat was a solid blackness, its single mast silhouetted against the dying light of the twilight sky. Thrashing frantically, I lunged at the stern line, missing, going under, writhing upward, grabbing out in panic. Harlan’s hand found mine and guided it to the security of the rope.
    “Rest,” he whispered and cautiously swam round the boat. I could hear him, a barely discernible rippling, as I gulped for breath.
    “No one aboard,” he confirmed. “But they took the smallboat ashore.” For some reason this disappointed him. “Oh, well, in that case it’ll take them a long time to spread the alarm.”
    “Maybe they’d be friendly,” I hazarded, looking up at the sheer slippery side of the ship and wondering how I was ever going to make it into the cockpit.
    Harlan answered my suggestion with a snort. He lunged up out of the water, caught at the gunwale, his body a whiteness against the dark boat. He got both hands secured and then I heard him inhale as he gathered his strength to pull himself up.
    How selfish can you get, I derided myself, he’s just as hungry, just as tired, just as sore as you are and worried to boot.
    I heard him swear softly, a note of pain in his voice. I could hear him padding somewhere on board and then his face appeared above me.
    “Grab this,” he whispered and a heavy soft rope dangled in my face.
    I looped it around my wrists, thankful I shouldn’t have to make the climb unaided. Kicking myself out of the water, I felt Harlan pull me. As soon as I could reach the side, I grabbed for it, resolved to use as little of Harlan’s energy as possible. Once safely on board, I felt drained of any power to move and I was numb with the chill of the cool evening.
    “Here, get this on,” he urged and pressed a handful of clothing on me. The garments smelled of sweat, stale and sour, and were sticky with salt. But I struggled into an old sweater and found it covered me halfway to the knees. I rolled up the sleeves and wished it covered me to the ankles.
    “I suppose it’s too much to ask if you’ve sailed a boat,” Harlan said in a low voice.
    “Yes, but only as a crew member, long ago.”
    He gripped my shoulder with rough gratitude. “You never cease to supply my need.”
    I struggled to a sitting position, wondering what he meant exactly, and looked around. As nearly as I could gauge in the light, the boat was about thirty-five feet long, sloop-rigged, the sail now neatly furled on the boom, the jibsail not even out. The boat was obviously a workship; I could see piles of nets and woven baskets. There seemed to be a small cabin and it was here that Harlan had found sweaters.
    “It’s a shame but I’ve got to cut the anchor. Too much time and noise to lift it out of the water,” Harlan told me. I could see the gleam of a knife blade in his hand.
    “It’ll save time if I cut and you hoist the sail,” I told him and taking the knife, crept forward. My hands seemed strengthless as I sawed away at the heavy anchor line, thankful it wasn’t chain. I heard Harlan heaving at the sail and it seemed like noise enough to rouse the dead. It did rouse the men on the beach. I sawed faster.
    “Hurry, Sara,” I heard Harlan call and wondered why he still kept his voice low if the men had heard the creak of the sail.
    I felt the line and there was only one strand still uncut. Frantically, I hacked away and, just as I felt the pull of the ship against the wind in its sail, the anchor line parted.
    “Grab the tiller and head for the sea,” Harlan cried, still struggling to lift the cumbersome sail. I guess in the dim light it was difficult to see what he was doing. And he was tired, but he made heavy work with the sheet.
    Tripping over deck-stored gear, I scrambled astern and found the unfamiliar tiller handle.
    If for only this one adventure, my tomboy days paid rich dividends. I had run with Harlan, swum with him and now I was able to crew for him. And,