The woman knew a great deal about ships; she had travelled many hundreds of kagues by sea, and had an eye for their

complex detail. A voice from the past seemed to linger in her mind, which had described a ship as man's most beautiful creation. She could hear him add, and as demanding as any woman.

Someone behind her remarked, 'Another round of official visits, I suppose?' No one answered. It was too hot even for speculation. Feet clattered on stone steps and she heard the same voice say, 'Let me know when you get any more news.'

The servant scurried away while his master opened a scrawled message from somebody in the dockyard.

'She's the Hyperion, seventy-four. Captain Haven.'

The woman watched the ship but her mind was drawn to the name. Why should it startle her in some way?

Another voice murmured, 'Good God, Aubrey, I thought she was a hulk. Plymouth, wasn't it?'

Glasses clinked, but the woman did not move. Captain Haven? The name meant nothing.

She saw the guardboat pulling wearily towards the tall two-decker. She loved to watch incoming ships, to see the activity on deck, the outwardly confused preparations until a great anchor splashed down. These sailors would be watching the island, many for the first time. A far cry from the ports and villages of England.

The voice commented, 'Yes, she was. But with this war spreading every day, and our people in Whitehall as unprepared as ever, I suspect that even the wrecks along our coastline will be drummed into service.'

A thicker tone said, 'I remember her now. Fought and took a damned great three-decker single-handed. No wonder the poor old girl was laid up after that, eh, what?'

She watched, hardly daring to blink as the two-decker's shape lengthened, her sails being brailed up while she swung so slowly into whatever breeze she could discover.

'She's no private ship, Aubrey.' Interest had moved the man to the balustrade. 'God, she wears an admiral's flag.'