They stretched their legs and gazed anxiously at the canvas-covered lump of the Ganymede.

Then Norman Somers and Rucker Little climbed into the big driving machines and started the engines. Deaderick Early and Wallace Mumler opened the double doors at the back side of the warehouse, while the remaining members of the party, except for Cly and his crew, went to stations outside to look out for the trouble that everyone secretly expected.

But none came.

Intermittent whistles like birdcalls — prearranged for meaning — chirped through the now-full night, declaring that all was clear and the time was now.

Hurry. Move it. Out of the warehouse.

Down to the water, where the big winch waited, having been moved from the bayou to the edge of the river.… There, it had been concealed with saw grass and reeds, and a tuft of false tree canopy that disguised it at a distance.

Such a disguise was the best they could do. If anyone got close, the illusion would not hold. It could never hide something so large, and so strange. The whole assortment of nervous men prayed that anyone who took more than a second look would assume it was be overgrown dock equipment, left over from the days when people more regularly fished, and fixed boats, and moved cargo from the small bend called New Sarpy.

First gear was always the hardest when towing something so huge and heavy. The trucks strained against their load, and strained to pull together in perfect time like a pair of mechanical oxen. They moved, crawling inches at a time, but gaining traction and turf; and the conjoined platforms that moved the craft hauled it forward.

Now the watchers kept their eyes peeled even harder. They scanned using spyglasses that could tell them only so much in the darkness — but alerted them to lanterns, lights, and pedestrians out on the main road. They peered and squinted in every direction, calling soft hoots and the croaks of frogs that all was clear.

Do it now. Get it out of sight. Get it to the winch.

Only a few yards separated the warehouse exit from the camouflaged winch, so it took only minutes to move Ganymede from one stopping point to the next. It took only a few terrified clicks of Wallace Mumler’s watch for the craft to be affixed to the hooks at the top of the winch, and a few more for the dark-clothed men to move like shadows performing a dance, hitching the craft and swinging it over the water on a long, straining arm that could scarcely hold its weight.

Its bottom hit the water with a splash that sloshed a wave onto shore, soaking the legs of the men who stood nearby. They’d picked this place partly because there, the river was deeper than it looked, and would be an easy spot to launch from.

While the winch adjusted its position, the men who weren’t directly operating it went scampering along the banks, removing vegetation to reveal small engine-powered boats. They were the boats of poor people, half-cobbled things held together with pitch and elbow grease, and a dab of spit. They were boats no one would look at twice, for the river was crowded with them — mostly run by older men who took to the water in search of night-blind food, or lazy companionship, toting their nets, poles, and shellfish traps.

The men in the dinghies got bored enough that they served as a network of sorts, passing gossip and news back and forth across the water almost as swiftly as the taps could carry it. They were spies of another sort, watching the world for signs of change or progress. For a few pence in the palm, they’d help the rum-runners or the blight smugglers, the cargo handlers and the crawdad scrapers.

But not the Texians.

Not one of the boatmen would’ve lifted a finger to share gossip with the occupiers, and the handful of men who knew what was passing downriver kept the knowledge to themselves — or spread it to others like themselves, so that the Ganymede and its attendants wouldn’t be bothered.

Which was for the best, because there was no muffling the chains as they clanked and grinded, lowering Ganymede into the water. Everyone listened, terrified and tense, ears alert for warnings called from the watchmen beyond the warehouse. But nothing came, except the hoots and grunts that said all was well, and to continue.

So they did.

And when the ship was more in the water than out of it, the chains were released and it dunked itself, throwing up another sloppy wave. It bobbed, its entry hatch remaining above the waterline, but ducking and leaning, then stabilizing.

Norman Somers and Andan Cly used a pair of hooked poles to latch the craft to a set of pier posts, which had been driven deeply into the mud. These two men, the largest and strongest present, wrestled with the weight of the craft and nearly — for one horrifying cycle of waves slapping and watchers calling “still safe” in their bird cries — let it slip away from them. But they caught it, and hooked it into place as if they were tying an enormous horse to a pair of hitching posts.

Now the ship was more hidden than visible, the bulk of its shape concealed by the shimmering black water.

“The winch,” Deaderick whispered fiercely. “Put it up. Get it away.”

Again the men moved like clockwork, each one to a task, each one knowing exactly where to place each foot, twist each knob, unfasten each support. Soon the winch was teetering, and then it fell into the water, as planned.

Deaderick instructed them in his stern, low voice, “Cover it up. Sink it. Leave it in the mud.”

This happened wordlessly, promptly. Completely. Their success would not be assured until the sun rose again, but it would suffice for now. The lanterns showed nothing beneath the surface but a roiling bubble of silt washed up by the heavy winch settling on the bottom.

It would do.

“Inside,” Deaderick told them. “Hurry.”

Hurry was the word of the hour, and they all obeyed it.

Cly stepped into the river on a small raft that’d been pushed into his path to use as a floating stepping-stone. He straddled the raft and the shore, the remarkable span of his legs stretching the distance. “Fang,” he said.

Fang took Cly’s hand, and, with barely a step upon the captain’s knee, reached the Ganymede’s hatch and opened it — so gently that it did not make even the quietest clank when he set it aside. Immediately behind him came Houjin, moving almost as fast, almost as easily. Fang took the boy’s elbow and tipped him inside, then followed him.

“Troost, your turn.”

“Son of a bitch,” Troost grumbled, adjusting the match in his mouth, taking a deep breath, and lunging for the captain’s outstretched hand. He stumbled, caught himself — and Cly held him up, too, keeping him mostly out of the water — and then he was against the craft, clinging to it. He swung his leg over and crawled down the hatch.

“Early,” Cly called.

When Deaderick walked over, Wallace Mumler objected, saying, “Wait. No. You’re not healed up. Not yet.”

“No one else knows that thing as well as I do. No one else knows it in and out, all the weapons systems and all the bailing systems.”

“I do, almost,” Mumler argued. “And I know the electrics even better than you, I bet.”

“Then you come, too, if you’re willing. The pair of us, me and you — and these fellows. We’ll get it down the river. Norman can take over your pole boat, can’t he? Norman?”

“I can take it, Rick.”

“Good. Take Wally’s pole-craft, and you,” he said to Mumler, “get inside. Come on, if you’re coming.”

Wallace looked at Ganymede, and looked at his leader. “All right, then. Me and you.”

“Go in, get in. You’ll need less help than I will, with me in this shape. Not that it’s as bad as you think,” he added before Mumler could protest any further.

Cly came last. He leaned, stepped off the raft, and stuck to the side of Ganymede, hanging there. Before he climbed in, he looked over at the few assembled men who weren’t on lookout duty, and said, “We’re counting on you fellows, you know that, right? We can’t make this work without you. We’ll drown down here, if you don’t keep us moving.”