Flin blinked behind his glasses. "My goodness, you can't see a thing! Are you going into the harbor in this soup?"
"If we don't raise any ships, I may try it, so long as our short-range tube works."
"Which harbor, the Kantharos? That has the most room."
"Yes, but we should have to work around the west end of the peninsula and through a channel. I don't think that would be smart at night under sail alone. Or we can run before the wind straight into Zea. There should be only small craft there."
As the little yacht crept toward Zea Harbor, pitching slowly on the smooth swells, Bulnes strained his eyes into the dark. He said, "We should see the Fretis Light."
"In this muck?"
"Yes, it's a fog-piercer ... Take another spin on the crank."
A minute later Flin's voice came out of the cabin: "There seem to be some small ships anchored ... I should say about thirty meters at the largest. Docks and ship sheds around the edge, too. Bear le — I mean to port."
"Are we through the entrance, please?"
"Just about ... A little to starboard ... I see more anchored ships on the screen ... We must be passing close by one. Don't they show lights?"
"Not a light. Find me a clear space and we'll anchor."
"Righto. Bear to port a point ... Little more ..."
"You'll have to drop anchor by hand. Say when, and I'll bring her about. Watch your head if we have to jibe."
After a while, Flin's voice came, "Here you are!"
Bulnes spun the wheel. The Dagmar II did a tight turn and luffed, sails flapping gently. Flin bounced out of the cabin and scrambled forward, almost falling over the side. Bulnes could see the diffused light of his headlamp and hear the rattle of the anchor chain. The yacht drifted shoreward until stopped by the anchor. Bulnes and Flin lowered the sails.
"Quietest place I ever saw," said Flin. "We ought to hear ships loading over in the Kantharos."
Bulnes yawned. "I hear somebody talking on shore, so the place can't be utterly deserted. Might as well make ourselves comfortable until morning ... Hell, it's not yet midnight."
"Aren't we liable to be run down without lights?"
"I suppose we are, but I don't know what to do about it."
"Why can't we take the bulbs out of the sockets and put candles in their place? That might be better than nothing."
Bulnes looked with surprise at his partner. "Splendid! Why didn't I think of that? You take the port light."
"Why not let me do both, while you take another look at the screen?"
Bulnes smiled cynically. Anything to get out of the slave labor of spinning the generator crank! He went below.
When the screen flashed into light, he saw the outline of Zea Harbor surrounding them. Though it looked different from the charts, Knut Bulnes was still sure he had not entered the Munihia Harbor by mistake. The light on the screen was fading when movement caught his attention.
He spun the crank again and threw the switch.
"Hey, Wiyem!" he called, cranking furiously. The generator whined.
"What is it? I haven't got the starboard ..."
"Kindly look at this!" Bulnes pointed to the object, an unmistakable ship moving through the harbor entrance toward them.
"Looks like a dashed centipede!" said Flin.
"That's the return from the wake. Hurry with that other light, if you please, and if you hear 'em, tell 'em to keep off."
Flin hurried out again. Bulnes took one more spin, then snatched up a flashlight and went out on deck after him. Cocking his ears against the opaque dark, he heard a medley of sounds: a murmur of voices, a ripple of water, and a rhythmic thumping.
He cupped his hands. "Keep off!"
The noise became louder. He shouted again, then said to Flin, "Know where the signal flares are? Get some quick!"
Chapter Three
The sounds grew louder yet. The unseen ship must contain many people all talking at once: an excursion boat, perhaps. Somebody chanted above the general noise: "Rhyppapai! Papai.' Rhyppapai.' Papai!"
The approaching ship must now be so close that her stem might appear any time. In the fog, higher than Bulnes's head, a light spot grew to a hazy red ball.
"Here they are," panted Flin. "I had to hunt ..."
"Get away! Keep off!" screamed Bulnes in French, Italian, Spanish, and Arabic.
From the darkness a voice answered "Ti?" and continued with a rattle of syllables Bulnes could not make out, though it sounded not unlike his native Spanish. The "Rhyppapai! Papai!" grew louder, keeping time with the thump and splash as of many oars.
The blood-red ball became brighter. Bulnes snatched up one of the flares and ignited it with his cigarette lighter.
The red ball became a fire pot on the bow of a ship. Bulnes glimpsed a group of men around the fire pot. Then the flare went off, just as something struck the Dagmar II under water with a sickening crunch.
The yacht jerked. Bulnes, almost thrown overboard, dropped the flare to clutch for support just as the magenta flame shot out. The flare fell into the water and was quenched with a sizzle. The post or tripod on the strange ship toppled forward, spilling coals over the bow, and the men around it grabbed at each other and at the rail. The "Rhyppapai!" stopped.
"You farstards!" howled Bulnes. "Maricones!"
Shouts came from the other ship, and water swirled as the ship began to back away.
Bulnes thrust his head into the cabin. By the light of his headlamp he could see that the floor boards were already wet, and an ominous gurgle from below told the rest of the tale. Bulnes snatched up the sail-winch crank and rushed out again.
"Wiyem!" he shouted. "We're filling! Pull up the anchor!"
Bulnes cranked the sail winches furiously, taking the jibs first so that the faint air filled these and swung the yacht's bow shoreward. Water was sloshing over the duckboards by the time they were all up and the ship sliding toward shore.
"She moves awfully slowly," said Flin.
"Not much wind, and she's low in the water."
"My feet are getting wet."
"There'll be more of you wet than that!"
Fuming, Bulnes searched the fog for signs of shore. The water was up to his ankles.
"Did you see what I saw?" said Flin.
"You mean that ship, like some antique out of a history book?"
"More than that. It was a Classical trireme."
"I thought so. Somebody must be making a movie."
"Could be," said Flin dubiously.
"What holed us? The bow of that thing was nowhere near the Dagmar."
"If it was a real trireme, it would have a ram sticking out just below the surface of the water."
"What were those people talking? They didn't seem to understand any of the common Mediterranean languages."
"Dashed if I know. Is that something ahead?"
Dark irregularities appeared in the fog forward. The sounds from the galley had sunk to a mere murmur. Bulnes said, "Drop the mainsail. This looks like a wharf."
The water was up to his calves. The wharf solidified, but small ships tied up to it occupied all the available space.
Bulnes said, "She's going down any minute. As soon as we touch those ships, jump on to them."
"But our clothes and stuff ..."
"Can't be helped. Ready?"
The Dagmar II brushed alongside the nearest ship, a blur of curved lines in the blackness.
Bulnes released the wheel and leaped for the rail. The yacht, as if this latest jar had upset a precarious balance, shuddered and slid below the surface of the bay.
Bulnes swung himself over the rail of the other ship, then turned as Flin called, "Help me, Knut! I'm stuck!"