Morris asked, as he eased off the throttle in the bridge of the big motor yacht. “A simple impulse to piracy? You’d make a helluva pirate, Mr. Constantine—you lack only the parrot.” “I had information that she’d be on the biggest yacht in that marina,” Constantine said, “and this was it. Right—we’ve gone far enough for now. Set it to just coast along, say a knot at a time . . .” “You don’t know what a nautical knot is, do you, Mr. Constantine?” Morris sniffed. “If it’s not some bloody thing to do with tying a rope to the mainbraces then it’s some bloody thing about how fast you’re going, eh?” Constantine looked out at the blue, sun-sparkled sea. There was land, off to starboard a mile or more: a strip of pale dun, some cumulus clouds on the horizon, and nothing else. They’d just released Abbide on that coastline, Constantine giving him posthypnotic suggestions to come out of his trance after a hundred steps up the beach.
