He yawned. "We'd better catch some sleep while waiting. You cork off first while I watch."
"But need you not the first repose? Yours has been the heavier…"
"Go to sleep!" roared Barnevelt, feeling very dominant.
"Aye, noble master." She gave him a worshipful look.
He sat down with his back against the mast, his eyes sweeping the horizon. Now and then he pinched or slapped himself to wake himself up. Memories of all the cartoons he had seen, showing a pair of castaways on a raft, paraded through his mind. As the sea water dried upon his hide, it left little itchy flakes of salt. When he scratched his scalp, he became aware that his coarse bronze fuzz was sprouting. He'd better find means of shaving it, or his non-Krishnan origin would soon become obvious.
"O Snyol!" said Zei in piteous tones, "I am too cold to sleep."
"Come on over and let me warm you," he said. Instantly he regretted it. With a swift octopoid motion, Zei slithered sidewise into the crook of his right arm. She was shivering.
"That's better," she said, smiling up at him.
Oh, is it? thought Barnevelt, in whose soul two natures— the cautious, calculating man of affairs and the healthy young animal—were locked in mortal combat. Blood pounded in his temples.
For an instant, the man of affairs ruled. "Excuse me," muttered Barnevelt, disengaging himself and abruptly turning his back on Zei to feel his clothes where they drooped from the stay. They were still damp, as might be expected so close to the surface of the sea. Nevertheless, he donned these dank garments, saying over his shoulder: "They'll never dry on the line at this rate. But if we put them on, our body heat'll dry them in time. Better put your tunic on, too."
"Ugh!" she said, fingering her torn chemise. "But if you say so, my lord." She slipped the gauzy garment over her head. "Now warm me again, sirrah, for my teeth begin to clatter like the castanets of a dancer of Balhib."
Once more they settled down at the base of the mast. The moons neared the horizon; the sun should soon be up. Zei gave a contented sigh and smiled up at Barnevelt. Before he knew what he was doing, he bent down and kissed her.
She neither pulled away nor responded. Instead, her face bore an expression of surprise and perplexity. She asked: "Is this, then, that Earthly custom called 'kissing,' whereof I have heard rumors?"
"Why, yes. Hasn't it spread to Qirib yet?"
'Tis practiced amongst the wilder spirits of the land, I'm told—albeit none of our courtly circle has yet monstrated it to me. Is it true that, amongst the Terrans, 'tis a kind of salute, signifying love and esteem?"
"So they tell me."
"Excellent. It is right and proper, forsooth, that all loyal subjects should love the members of the royal house. So, dear Snyol, have the goodness once more to prove your loyalty to the throne!"
The thought flickered through Barnevelt's mind that "love" had many meanings. He complied. Zei, he found, improved quickly with practice.
Again his blood pounded. Healthy-animal Barnevelt, thrown for the nonce, now rose up and grappled Man-of-affairs Barnevelt. The latter protested: In the name of all the gods, Dirk, use some sense! If you go on like this and she doesn't resist—which she sure hasn't so far—it could cost you your head! Wait till you've gotten your affairs and those of your company straightened out…
Healthy-animal Barnevelt advanced no arguments; he had no need to. By sheer brute strength, he forced Man-of-affairs Barnevelt to the mat. Barnevelt discovered that the partial covering of Zei's hidden glories, far from abating his desires, only stimulated them.
He shifted his position, for his right arm was going to sleep from the pressure of Zei's body. Then a fleck, of brightness ' in the distance brought him up with a start. "What is it, dearest friend?" said Zei.
Barnevelt reluctantly disengaged himself and pointed towards the little whitish triangle, standing up against the lightening sky on the western horizon. "If I'm not mistaken, that's the sail of the Shambor."
He gave her a long, lingering glance. However, Man-dr-affairs Barnevelt was now firmly back at the helm. Grimly, Barnevelt began doing calisthenics. The rotten planking of the ancient raft creaked under his push-ups and knee-bends. "What do you?" asked Zei. "Is that a matutine gesture of obeisance to the grim gods of far Nyamadze?"
"You might put it that way. Nothing like a little exercise to—ah—get the blood circulating. Better try it."
At length he stopped, panting. "It struck me that this may not be our ship after all. So we'd better lie down behind the mast, so as not to show against the sky, just in case."
"What if it be our foes?"
"Then we'll slip into the water and take a chance on the fondaqa."
The sail grew swiftly larger as the dawn breeze drove it closer. When it drew near enough for the ship's hull to be discerned from where they lay, Barnevelt saw that it was indeed the Shambor. He waited, however, until he recognized Chask at the tiller before leaping up to whoop and wave.
Minutes later, the little ship nosed into the weed until her stem bumped the raft. Barnevelt boosted Zei over the rail and climbed aboard himself.
He grumpily told himself that he had had a lucky escape from forming an intimate connection with the princess, with the gods knew what dire results. But, at the same time, the less practical side of his nature—Romantic-dreamer Barnevelt—whispered: Ah, but you do love her, and not as subject and royalty, either! And some day, perhaps, you, and she will be united somehow, somewhere. Some day. Some day…