“De-Etienne, I fear the many vessels you say lie ahead of us.”

“Is there any way you can tell what they’re up to by looking at them?”

“Yes. If they have their gill nets out I think they’re just fishing and not ready for war. Gill nets cost too much to risk in a fight.”

Etienne considered. “Better tell Lyra to come forward, then. The iron eye can’t distinguish something as wispy as nets. We’ll need somebody to make visual confirmation.”

“I’m already here, Etienne.” The membrane picked up his wife’s voice before she stepped into view. Irquit was with her. “You don’t have to tell me my job.”

“I wasn’t telling you your job,” he snapped, “I just—never mind. We’ll be on top of them in a minute.” He examined the crowded screen. “I’ll have to slow down or we’re liable to run over somebody.”

“We’ve never run into more than four or five boats fishing together before. Too much competition,” Lyra murmured. “It doesn’t fit the established pattern.” Masted wooden shapes were appearing on the horizon ahead.

The roar of the electric jet dropped to a rumble and the hydrofoil’s speed dropped radically until the hull once more broke water. As they began to pass among the component vessels, the fishing fleet was even more impressive up close than it had appeared on the scanner.

The craft that plied the warm waters of the Skatandah Delta rarely required the muscles of more than three or four fishermen. These great bargelike vessels each boasted two dozen crew or more. They lay across the Skar in three rows, blocking a decent part of the river’s considerable breadth, and were roped together.

To Etienne’s relief they clearly saw the huge gill nets strung between the ships. Since they didn’t drift with the current they must utilize heavy anchors to hold them in place. Women and children manned the nets and lines alongside the men.

Every tenth barge was a vast floating platform nearly as big as some of the ocean-going trimarans they’d encountered out in the Groalamasan. The reason for their extraordinary size, as well as for the number of fishing craft, soon became apparent. It had to do with the size of the catch.

Some twenty vessels were swinging close together, bumping sides and full of organized confusion as their crews strained at nets and lines. The water between began to froth and bubble, was finally broken by the emergence of an immense rainbow-hued head. More glowing color breached the surface and the fisherfolk redoubled their efforts to haul in their whale-sized catch.

“Arwawl!” Homat exclaimed excitedly. “I’ve tasted its dried flesh but never seen one before. They run only in the main river and come nowhere near Po Rabi’s shallows.”

The chanting of the fishermen was a steady, triumphant chorus now as they hauled in the huge interlocked nets. As they did so ten ships passed to port of the immense barge, ten to starboard. The barge crew lent its muscle to the task and long gaffs, attached to winches, were brought into use. Slowly the arwawl was hauled onto the deck, bending the stern beneath the surface of the river for long moments before the silvery tonnage could be better distributed.

The single catch was enough to feed many villages, Etienne mused, but the fleet apparently wasn’t satisfied. Still other nets were out, trailing from the less fortunate boats. He admired the fisherfolk’s persistence.

It was left to Irquit, less mesmerized by the efficiency of the fleet, to sound a warning. She moved closer to Lyra, who was intent on recording the fishing with her instruments.

Irquit performed a diminutive half bow. “Forgive me for troubling you, de-Lyra, but I think we are in danger.”

“What?” Lyra strained to refocus her attention. “What’s that, Irquit?”

The Mai stepped to the railing and pointed over the bow. “I have been watching those four ships.” Lyra raised her gaze, saw nothing unusual about the quartet of fishing craft dead ahead.

“What about them? They are fishing, like their companions.”

“Not like their companions,” Irquit argued. “They are moving toward us. They should be anchored in place, holding their nets against the flow of the Skar. They are drifting downstream.”

“Maybe they’re trying to reposition themselves in a better spot. Fishermen move all the time.”

“I’m sure they are moving to a better spot, but not to catch fish, I think.”

Lyra frowned. “What makes you think so?”

“Two drift to our left, two to the right. Their nets lie between. If we continue on this course they will soon ensnare us.”

“I’m sure it’s not intentional,” Lyra replied, but inwardly she wasn’t so sure. The boats were very close now and the big gill nets lay concealed by the rolling water. “We’ll warn them clear.”

“The nets of the Upriver fisherfolk are wondrous strong, de-Lyra,” Irquit said anxiously. “I don’t know that even your spirit boat could escape from them. There is something more. See how busy the crews are?”

Lyra squinted, peered through her recorder’s telephoto for a closer look. “I see. Isn’t that normal?”

“I am no fisherwoman, but I have visited this part of the Skar before. To travel downstream is simple. One simply raises the anchors and drifts with the current. Never have I seen so much activity surrounding so easy a task. When one works that hard at something that simple, one usually has something to hide.”

Lyra thought a moment, leaned over to call toward the cockpit. “Irquit thinks the four fishing boats coming Downriver toward us might be trying to ensnare us in their nets.”

Etienne wished the hydrofoil’s scanner could provide more detail. “What’s your opinion, Lyra?”

“I don’t know what to think, but I don’t want to take any unnecessary chances. I’d like to find out so that we’ll have a better idea what to expect in case the same situation reoccurs in the future. Let’s do our guesswork now.”

He nodded. “We’ll let them play all their cards, then. Tell Irquit not to worry. I can handle it.”

“Handle?” Irquit was trying to divide her attention between the stocky human female and the suspiciously active fishing boats dead ahead. “What does de-Etienne mean ‘handle?’” The boats were near enough now for the otolk wood floats to stand out clearly against the water.

“He means he’s ready to deal with any hostile moves.”

“But you must move away, move to avoid them while there is still time! I know that the spirit boat can move quickly to the side, and …”

“Have a calming, Irquit. Etienne knows what he’s doing. Everything’s under control.”

A gentle shudder ran through the hydrofoil’s hull as the bow made contact with the heavy nets and two of the oblong floats. As they continued Upriver, pushing the net with their bow, the four fishing boats were drawn toward each other … and the hydrofoil was caught between them.

Explosive roars of triumph sounded from all four Mai vessels and all pretense vanished. It was suddenly clear that they were interested in tougher quarry than fish. Gaffs gave way to long pikes and spears, and the chanting that accompanied the appearance of these weapons was very different from that which had provided a quaint backdrop to the landing of the arwawl.

Homat began to moan and rock from side to side. “Doomed we are. These river primitives will show us no mercy!”

Irquit merely looked resigned. “I warned you, de-Lyra.”

“And you were right,” the xenologist replied calmly as she turned again toward the cockpit bubble. “We’ve established their real intentions, Etienne. I’ve made my recordings.” She paused as something whizzed past overhead. “Let’s not hang around. They have bows.”

“Don’t you want to observe native weaponry in action?”

She ducked as a wood-and-bone shaft splintered against the deck. “Don’t get funny, honey. If you want to linger, we can switch places first.”

“Never mind.” He grinned at her as he gunned the engine. The jet nozzle pivoted a hundred and eighty degrees until it was facing toward the bow.

“Hold tight,” Lyra warned the two morose Mai. They barely had time to reach for handholds before the hydrofoil shot backward in full reverse. Suddenly nothing kept the four fishing boats apart. The nets fell limp into the river.

The chanting subsided as the would-be pirates watched their quarry vanish astern at sixty kph. Then crews rushed to the oars as all four crews realized there was nothing to stop their momentum. Frantic yells and curses replaced the warlike chanting of a moment earlier.

Etienne slowed and reversed direction once more, watching with interest as the four fishing boats, still linked together by their nets and lines, slewed inexorably toward each other. Loud snapping sounds filled the air as hastily manned oars were splintered against colliding hulls. Curses were drowned by shouts of confusion and conflicting orders as nets became tangled with rudders and broken oars.

Keeping well beyond arrow range, he edged the hydrofoil easily around their would-be captors, toward the center of the river. A few of the unhappy fisherfolk, unable to attack with their short bows, settled for bombarding the spirit boat with ferocious insults. Homat stifled his laughter at their plight long enough to translate those couched in the local dialect or too complex for Lyra to understand. She patiently entered them all into her journal under a subheading drolly labeled MAI INVECTIVE—LOCAL VARIANTS AND DIALECTS. All grist for the xenological mill.

Etienne half-expected some of the other fisherfolk to aid their brethren in the attack, but he was pleasantly disappointed. Instead of joining in, the Mai who’d stood to the side to watch were lining the sides of their own vessels and cheering the spirit boat’s escape.