Impact

25

Egg Rock was just about the most desolate island Abbey had ever seen, little more than a pile of sea-battered boulders in the Atlantic Ocean. It took less than five minutes to determine that the island had no crater. After wandering about disconsolately, they rested on the highest boulder at the top of the island. Seagulls wheeled overhead, crying out. The ocean thundered on the encircling rocks.

"Well?" said Jackie, sitting beside her. "That was a bust."

Abbey swallowed. "We still have Shark."

"Yeah, right."

"Fog's coming in," said Abbey. The fog bank was rolling in from the south, a low, gray line on the horizon. Even as she watched, the bank began swallowing Monhegan Island, which grayed out and disappeared, and a moment later it ate up the smaller island, Manana, next to it. She could hear the lonely moan of the Manana Island foghorn every few seconds.

Her eyes moved across the water to Shark Island, a speck of land about eight miles offshore, no more than two acres in extent, treeless and desolate. It was the last island on their list. If the meteorite wasn't there . . . she tossed a pebble, musing gloomily about their odds of finding a crater on Shark. The clouds above began to roll in and a shadow fell across them, the light leaving the air, enveloping them in a cold seaweed smell.

"Gonna rain," said Jackie. "Let's go back to the boat."

Abbey nodded. They picked their way down through the rocks and the sea wrack to the dinghy and launched it into the light swell. The ocean was calm and it seemed to be settling down, as it often did in a fog. Abbey rowed back to the Marea, pulling hard, and in a moment they climbed over the stern. Back in the pilothouse, Abbey ran through a mental list, checking the fuel level, batteries, and bilge. She started the engine, the Yanmar rumbling to life. As she was switching on the electronics, Jackie came in.

"Let's find a nice gunkhole somewhere, drop anchor, and get stoned."

"We're going to Shark Island."

Jackie groaned. "Not in the fog, please. My head aches from that wine last night."

"Fresh air will do you good." Abbey hunched over the chart. Shark Island was exposed to the wild Atlantic, surrounded by sunken ledges and reefs, and swept by dangerous currents. It was going to be a bitch to get on it. She tuned the VHF to the weather channel and the strangely flat computer voice began reciting the report.

"Let's just park here for a while, wait for the fog to blow over," Jackie said.

"This is our chance. The sea's relatively calm."

"But the fog."

"We've got radar and a chartplotter."

As the fog bank rolled toward them, an eerie half-light fell on the sea.

Jackie flopped into the seat next to the helm. "Come on, Abbey, can't we just chill for a while? I've got a hangover."

"Weather's coming in. If we don't take advantage of the calm sea now, we may be waiting for days. Look--once we land, it'll take us five minutes to explore that rock."

"No, please."

Abbey laid a hand on her friend's shoulder. "Jackie, the meteorite is waiting."

Jackie snorted sarcastically.

"Haul anchor, first mate."

As Jackie stumbled forward, the fog bank swallowed the boat, shrinking the world into a few yards of gray twilight.

Jackie slotted the anchor into its stay and smacked in the anchor pin. "You're a Captain Bligh--you know that?"

With her eye on the chartplotter, Abbey eased the boat into forward, and swung the bow of the Marea toward Shark Island. "EBay, here we come."