Even the Delta's most seasoned sailors avoided the strait between the Peror Islands and the mainland. And, for good reason. Erratic winds, treacherous currents, hidden shoals, and jagged rocks above, and below the surface, had cost the most skilled seamen their boats and their lives. 

     But Tyree had given the order and reluctantly Orld Ting, captain of the Triplet had obeyed and was currently struggling with the helm as his trimaran was tossed about in the winds and surging waves.  

     Everyone on board was at a railing. Everyone held a long shaft.  Bulbous at one end.  And long enough to push the Triplet away from reefs and rocks. 

     Hanar stood next to Tyree and during one of the rare moments of calm and said, “Great idea, Sis.” 

     “You were asleep.”

     “Twenty feet away.”

     “I had to make a decision.”

     “No, you didn't.”

     “If we'd gone all the way around Peror Island we would have wasted more than one turn.”

     “Not if Krista and her shuttle are on the island.”

     Tyree paused and looked at the barren stretch of land that disappeared over the horizon. “Only an idiot would land there.”

     “Or a genius who would realize some . . . People would think only an idiot would land there.” 

     “Hanar, you become more annoying every moment.”

     “I am so sorry, Sis.”

     “Do not call—” Tyree hefted her bumper pole under her arm and made her way astern gabbing fists of line to keep her balance.  She sat on the second step leading to the upper deck and pulled out the crate containing the two gazbags. Tyree had written the note in the galley the night before. 

Dear Father, 

     We traveled to the delta and now are on a boat sailing towards the Joeng.  So far we have seen no sign of Krista Tay or the shuttle. Several people in the delta said they saw the shuttle heading south, but as we both know in that direction is only desert wasteland and not a likely place for Krista to spend some time after being cooped up on a starship for who knows how long.  So Hanar and I followed your advice and are sailing to the more idyllic part of Iuama.  We should arrive at Sling in a turn, two at the most. 

      I will send you a gazbag from there. 

                      Your third child, 

                                  Tyree

      Tyree rolled the note into a small column, opened the crate, and grabbed the closest gazbag by the throat.  Without warning, the entire trimaran buckled from a maverick wave and a powerful gust of wind. The second gazbag peeked through the open hatch in the crate and took to the air.  “Shenzi,” Tyree cried.  A talon from the gazbag in her hand slashed across her forearm.  “Tomba!” Tyree's free hand and went to the head of the gazbag and started to break its neck. 

     “Bad idea, Sis.” Hanar eased the gazbag from Tyree's grasp. 

     “Good.” Tyree handed Hanar the note.  “You send it. And stop calling —” Tyree stood and disappeared into the galley.      

     Hanar waited until Tyree was well out of earshot and said, “I'll be happy to send it, Sis.”

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