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of the distressed vessel, having believed himself abandoned without succour, would over-react to the promise of salvation, and when La Mouette came bustling up over the horizon, flying all her bunting and with every light blazing in as theatrical a display as Jules could put up, the relieved master would probably leap at the offer of  ‘Lloyd’s Open Form’ — a decision that would surely be regretted by the ship’s owners in the cold and unemotional precincts of an Arbitration court.
    When Nick had supervised the design of Warlock, he had insisted that she look good as well as being able to perform. The master of a disabled ship was usually a man in a highly emotional state. Mere physical appearance might sway him in the choice between two salvage tugs coming up on him. Warlock looked magnificent; even in this cold and cheerless ocean, she looked like a warship. The trick would be to show her to the master of Golden Adventurer before he struck a bargain with La Mouette .
    Nick could no longer sit inactive in his canvas seat. He judged the next towering swell and, with half a dozen quick strides, crossed the bridge deck in those fleeting moments as Warlock steadied in the trough. He grabbed the chrome handrail above the Decca computer. On the keyboard he typed the function code that would set the machine in navigational mode, coordinating the transmissions she was receiving from the circling satellite stations high above the earth. From these were calculated Warlock‘s exact position over the earth’s surface, accurate to within twenty-five yards.
    Nick entered the ship’s position and the computer compared this with the plot that Nick had requested four hours previously. It printed out quickly the distance run and the ship’s speed made good. Nick frowned angrily and swung round to watch the helmsman. In this fiercely running cross sea, a good man could hold Warlock on course more efficiently than any automatic steering device. He could anticipate each trough and crest and prevent the ship paying off across the direction of the swells, and then kicking back violently as she went over, wasting critical time and distance. Nick watched the helmsman work, judging each sea as it came aboard, checking the ship’s heading on the big repeating compass above the man’s head. After ten minutes, Nick realized that there was no wastage; Warlock was making as good a course as was possible in these conditions.
    The engine telegraph was pulled back to her maximum safe power-setting, the course was good and yet Warlock was not delivering those few extra knots of speed that Nick Berg had relied on when he had made the critical decision to race La Mouette for the prize. Nick had relied on twenty-eight knots against the Frenchman’s eighteen, and he was not getting it. Involuntarily, he glanced out to the west as Warlock came up on the top of the next crest. Through the streaming windows, from which the spinning wipers cleared circular areas of clean glass, Nick looked out across a wilderness of black water, forbidding and cold and devoid of other human presence.
    Abruptly Nick crossed to the R/T microphone.
    “Engine Room confirm we are top of the green.”
    “Top of the green, it is, Skipper.” The Chief’s casual tones floated in above the crash of the next sea coming aboard.
    Top of the green’was the maximum safe power-setting recommended by the manufacturers for those gigantic Mirrlees diesels. It was a far higher setting than top economical power, and they were burning fuel at a prodigious rate. Nick was pushing her as high as he could without going into the red, danger area above eighty percent of full power, which at prolonged running might permanently damage her engines. Nick turned away to his seat, and wedged himself into it. He groped for his cheroot case, and then checked himself, the lighter in his hand. His tongue and mouth felt furred over and dry. He had smoked without a break every waking minute