Firespill [antikvár]

"I do think they could have given you a bit more notice." Captain James Kyle, a short, robust fifty-three-year-old with a cherubic smile and thinning white hair, moved slightly in his kitchen chair to face the bedroom where his wife was hurriedly packing his seabag. "Phil Limet hardly knew he had a heart at-tack coming, Sarah." "Oh, I suppose not." Sarah maneuvered a bulging toilet kit into the seabag and checked his socks for the third time. "I just want to have you at home, that's all. I'm sorry for Mr. Limet, and I hope he recovers. I didn't mean to be unfeeling, love." "I never believed otherwise." Kyle turnéd back to the big kitchen window. It was almost time to go, but he lingered over his coffee, taking a last look at their garden, his eyes straying beyond to the ships in Es-quimalt Harbor, lying like toys on the wide gray slate that stretched out from the southern tip of Vancouver Island. It was the beginning of a long, hot summer on Canada's west coast, and they had told him he would not be back before the fali. By then the black-red blossoms of the Nocturne roses might be finished. Picking up the binoculars that he always kept by the kitchen's picture window, Kyle focused on a huge, black, rectangular form in the distance. Looking like a skyscraper floating on its side, it slowly made its way through the Strait of Jüan de Fuca. It was the MV Kocliak, one of the giant American supratankers. No morál problem there, he thought, apprehensive