"Let's take a look at the chart," Mitchell said. "From here on it's all new to me."

Andy laid the chart across Mitchell’s leg. Then he leaned through the companionway to stop the vents and turn the ignition key. Nothing. He tried again. His chin dropped. "The batteries are dead."

"Bullshit. We haven’t drained those batteries."

Andy climbed below and turned the key. "They're dead."

"The port battery is new."

"It's still dead. What do you want to do?"

Mitchell stared at the land. "It’s too far. There isn’t enough breeze to try for the docks. We'd probably run aground, not to mention that in half an hour I’ll be dead from heat stroke." He looked below into the cabin shadows and saw only the premature end of his day. "Let’s try for Newport."

"Okay with me." Andy climbed up. "Good sailors don’t need engines."

"What about running lights?" Mitchell was suddenly aware of pain in his feet. "Something’s wrong. Pull these boots, Andy."

Andy hurried to strip Mitchell’s boots and socks and both men stared at the purple bruising swollen into Mitchell’s feet.

"Didn’t you know they were too tight?"

Mitchell felt deep pain throb in his feet then. "It takes a while for it to get upstairs."

"You'll be okay," Andy whispered, without conviction.

"Let’s go," Mitchell said. It was all he could manage.

Under sail the sloop clawed at little more than drifting across the harbor. Both sails were lifeless, roused only by occasional puffs of scorched air. Mitchell examined the ugly discoloration in his feet. "I knew I’d get banged around," he said. "But not like this. This is stupid."

Outside the harbor a light breeze snapped at the mainsail. Limp folds of the genoa lifted gently over the lifeline and the sloop’s speed increased to two knots.

Andy trimmed the mainsail. "I don't think we'll make Newport."

"We'll make Point Judith."

"Can we get the batteries charged there?" Andy climbed on deck without waiting for an answer.

"He wears his doubt like an overcoat." Mitchell inhaled slowly, deeply, trying to oxygenate against the heat. "Well, this isn’t the best laid plan. Twenty-six dollars."

At midday they had made only six miles in a slow breeze and short black swells. Half a mile off the port bow a pack of sailboats was racing in the light air. Twenty new boats with crews working the newest fiber-composite sails and great multi-colored spinnakers ballooned high above the bows. Andy took the binoculars from inside the cabin and leaned into the hatch opening to rest his elbows on the cabin top. He followed the swift hulls as they tacked singly and in pairs onto a new heading. "I’d do that if I had that kind of money." He climbed on deck and walked forward with the binoculars to sit before the mast.

"If I had that kind of money I wouldn't be worrying about batteries or running lights. Or a stove or an anchor light. I wouldn't be wondering if anything else has gotten past me." Mitchell nodded to the truth. "It’s me I’m not sure of. The fear that I’ll spend my life in that mindless place, staring out a window at nothing. Is that my due, old world?"