Up in the sail they heard Michael crack the hatch. Pale morning light shined down into the darkened submersible. They could feel the humid sea air and hear the harsh but welcome cry of seagulls.

“That’s music to my ears,” Richard said.

“We’re just off one of the harbor islands,” Michael called out from above. “I don’t know which one.”

At that moment the submersible struck the sandy bottom with a jolt and began to turn sideways in the surf.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” Donald cried. “This thing is going to founder.”

As the secondary humans scrambled out of their seats, Arak and Sufa raised their hands and pressed palms lovingly. “For Interterra,” Arak said.

“For Interterra,” Sufa repeated.

“Come on, you two,” Donald yelled to the two primary humans. “This sub’s about to tip over, and when it does it’s going to flood.”

Arak and Sufa ignored him but instead continued to press palms dreamily.

“Suit yourselves,” Donald said.

“Someone bring up my armor,” Michael yelled down the hatch.

There was a mad scramble up the ladder, especially after the sub careened and a slosh of water came crashing down the hatchway. Topside everyone except Michael jumped into the surf and struck out for nearby shore. Michael tried to go back down the ladder but changed his mind when the boat heeled over completely. It was with some difficulty that he managed to swim free.

Harvey had to be helped in the wild surf, but everyone except the Interterrans made it to the steeply pitched beach, where they flopped down in the warm sand. Michael was the last to pull himself from the undertow. Richard teased him mercilessly about his sunken Greek armor.

The weather was superb. It was a mild, hazy summer morning. Warm sunlight sparkled across the water, giving an inkling of what its midday power would be. After the effort in the surf, the group was content to rest, suck in the fresh air, watch the gulls soar, and allow the sun to dry the flimsy satin garments clinging to their bodies.

“Now I feel sad about Arak and Sufa,” Perry said wistfully. The Oceanus had tipped over on its side and was filled with water. It was already farther off the shore than when they’d disembarked. The wave action was dragging it back out to sea.

“Not me,” Richard said. “Good riddance as far as I’m concerned.”

“It’s too bad about the submersible, though,” Donald said. “It’s not going to last long out there. It will probably end up on the bottom off the continental shelf. Damn! I was hoping to power it right into Boston Harbor.”

Just after Donald spoke a particularly big set of waves reared up. After they broke and the foam receded, the submersible was gone from sight.

“Well, there it goes,” Perry said.

“After our story is told I’m sure there will be a lot of pressure to salvage it,” Michael said. “It’ll probably end up in the Smithsonian.”

“Where are we?” Harvey asked. He pushed himself up on one elbow and looked back at the low, windswept island. It seemed to be only sand, seashells, and saw grass.

“We told you,” Donald said. “It’s one of the many Boston Harbor islands.”

“How are we going to get to town?” Perry asked.

“A couple hours from now there’ll be pleasure boats all around here,” Michael said. “Once people hear our story they’re going to be fighting over the honor of giving us a ride.”

“I’m looking forward to a nice dinner where I know what I’m eating,” Perry said. “And a telephone! I want to call my wife and daughters. Then I want to sleep for about forty-eight hours.”

“I’ll second that,” Donald said. “Come on! Let’s walk around to the windward side. Even from a distance a gander at old Beantown will do my heart good.”

“I’m with you,” Perry said.

The group got to their feet, stretched, and started hiking along the beach in the hard-packed sand at the water’s edge. Despite their exhaustion, they began to sing. Even Donald was drawn into the merriment.

Rounding a point forming the side of a small inlet, the group stopped in their tracks and fell silent. Not more than a couple of hundred feet upwind from them was an old gray-haired man clamming in the shadows. He had beached a moderate-sized skiff. Its lateen sail was luffing in the steady breeze.

“Isn’t this a happy coincidence?” Perry said.

“I can taste the coffee and feel those clean sheets already,” Michael said. “Come on, let’s make this old guy a hero. They’ll probably put him on CNN.”

With a whoop, the group broke into a run. The fisherman panicked at the sight of the pack of bellowing men charging toward him across the dunes. Dashing to his boat, he tossed in his pail and net and tried to flee.

Richard was the first on the scene, and he raced out into waist-deep water to grasp the boat’s transom and slow its progress.

“Hey, old man, what’s the rush?” Richard questioned.

The fisherman responded by releasing his sail. With an oar he tried to fend Richard off. Richard grabbed the oar, yanked it out of the man’s grip, and tossed it aside. The others ran out into the water and latched onto the boat.

“Not a very friendly chap,” Richard remarked. The fisherman was standing amidships, glaring at the group.

Harvey retrieved the oar and brought it back.

“No wonder,” Perry said. He looked down at himself and then at the others. “Look at us! What would you think if four guys dressed in lingerie came running out of the morning mist?”

The entire group broke down into giddy laughter fueled by exhaustion and stress. It took them several minutes to regain a semblance of control.

“Sorry, old man,” Perry said between chokes of laughter. “Pardon our appearance and our behavior. But we’ve had one hell of a night.”

“Too much grog, I suspect,” the fisherman said.

The fisherman’s response sent them off on another laughing jag. But eventually they recovered enough to convince the man that they were not dangerous and that he would be generously compensated if he gave them a ride into Boston proper. With that decided, the men climbed into the boat.

It was a pleasant ride especially in comparison with the tense hours in the tight, claustrophobic submersible. Between the warm sun, the soft whisper of the wind in the sail, and the gentle roll of the boat, all but the fisherman were fast asleep before the skiff rounded the island.

With a steady breeze the fisherman expertly brought the boat into the harbor in good time. Unsure of where his passengers wanted to be dropped off, he gave the nearest person’s shoulder a shake. Perry responded groggily to the prodding and for a moment had trouble opening his eyes. When he did, the fisherman posed his question.

“I guess it doesn’t matter where,” Perry said. With supreme effort he sat up. His mouth was dry and cottony. Blinking in the bright sunlight, he glanced around the harbor. Then he rubbed his eyes, blinked again, and stared at the surroundings.

“Where the hell are we?” he demanded. He was confused. “I thought we were supposed to be in Boston.”

“ ’Tis Boston,” the fisherman said. He pointed to the right. “Them there is Long Wharf.”

Perry rubbed his eyes again. For a moment he wondered if he were hallucinating. He was looking at a harbor scene of square-rigged sailing ships, schooners, and horse drays along a granite quay. The tallest buildings were wood frame and a mere four or five stories.

Fighting off a wave of disbelief that bordered on terror, Perry shook Donald awake in a panic, crying that something was terribly wrong. The commotion awoke the others as well. When they took in the scene, they were equally dumbfounded.

Perry turned back to the fisherman, who was lowering the sail. “What year is this?” he asked hesitantly.

“Year of our Lord seventeen hundred ninety-one,” the fisherman said.

Perry’s mouth dropped open. He looked back at the square-rigged sailing ships. “Good God! They put us back in time.”