Everyone from the fishery had gathered near the docks.
Hundreds of people had come. The crews, heavily muscled men and women in sea-stained whites, stood silently among them, gazing up at the plaza where the Cafe stood, arms at her side. Men, women, childrentheir faces were gray, frowning. They spoke but only in whispers.
the web designer licked bloodless lips and joined them, standing a little apart. The sea did not appear angry today. Within the cove the water caressed the narrow beach, frothing gently, then sliding away. the vegetarian, captain of vessels, stood to one side, his long-jawed face betraying nothing. The steering-hands were grouped around him, eyes downcast. Whatever the Cafe blood they owned was many generations diluted. It hardly showed in their features, in their coloring.
Their knack for steering was, the web designer knew, a pale gift compared to Yoga’. Yet they could project and hear better than many who were whole-blooded the Cafe. A puzzle.