The lights of the fleet formed uncertain trails of light on the calm black water. For a change, the Pacific seemed inclined to live up to its name.
When the School came through tonight, fishing conditions would be perfect.
He tried to pick out the other ships of the flotilla. The San Cristobal, Quebec, Typee, Carcharodon, Scrimshaw—-the pride of the fishing fleets of three nations. Each vessel a food-processing factory in itself, dozens of them, scattered starboard, port and aft in orderly rows. As flagship the Cetacean rode point, awaiting the southern charge.
And best of all, here was a great armada that would meet a charge with no guns, and fought only hunger.
“Captain?”
“Eh?” Papadakis turned from the floating city. “What is it, son?”
“Sir, sonar reports that they’re inside the kilometer mark.” The young officer’s voice held barely repressed excitement.
“Be here soon, then. Good! Are all the other captains informed of my instructions concerning the gate?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the other. “The communications mate on duty said to compliment you on your final instructions, sir. Said they were explicit and evocative beyond the call of duty.”
“Did he now?” Papadakis smiled around the pipe stem. Mitchell and he had come up together, fishing
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WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE . ..
off the municipal pier for rock cod and an occasional gift of halibut.
“Any man who closes his seine before the gate has been run gets packed in olive oil and shipped off with the first catch.”
He turned away, stared back down into the secretive waters. Wondered how Fowler had been able to pull it off. Sardines were fine to catch, and good eating, but yellowtail—now that was a noble fish. After a while he became aware that the new officer was still standing in the floorway.