boat, “tell them who you are, tell them where we are!”
But Charles MacReady, stockbroker on vacation, seven
days, six nights, $950 all-inclusive from LaGuardia, not
counting the fact that he expected to get laid tonight, did
not reply. He was staring at the boat where seven feet of
white tigress dressed in leather and brass armor stood on
hind legs staring back at him.
Giggling rose from the floorboards in the front of
the boat. MacReady’s girlfriend had progressed from an
intimate examination of her nails to her toes, which she
was regarding now with a Buddha-like glassy stare.
MacReady dazedly flipped the butt of the sansemilla
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
101
stick over the side as though it had been laced with
cyanide and said clearly, “Holy shit.” Then he sat down
hard in the driver’s seat and fired up the big outboard.
“No wait,” Jon-Tom screamed, “wait!” He tried to
dive over the side, and it took all of Roseroar’s consider-
able strength to prevent him from drowning himself. In his
current state he couldn’t float, much less swim.
“Easy there, Jon-Tom. What’s gotten into y’all?”
He wrenched away from her, tore down the hatchway
into the hold, and fumbled with the diesel. It took three
tries but this time it started up. Then he was running,
crawling back up the stairs and flying for the steering
wheel console. The compass rocked. He stabbed a button.
A gargling came from underneath the ship, hesitated, died.
He jabbed the button again. This time the sound was a
whir, whir.
Mudge raced back from the bow. “Wot the bloody ‘ell