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yet decide which; they needed more detailed information. But there was
     no sense in being complacent—not when they remembered what had happened when a benevolent memeplex had tried to infiltrate
     their previous homeworld of Three-Moons.
    Age-old contingency plans flashed across their collective consciousness. For a fraction of a second, the collective mind that
     was Crooked Atoll debated a million alternatives, and came to a decision.
    Implacable resistance
.
    The rigging was a tangled mess, and the garden was a wreck.
    No one knew which mariner had first decided that it would be a good idea to grow plants in the otherwise useless ’bovedecks
     area. The fashion probably started out as decoration—a few salt-tolerant flowers and trailing vines. The polypoids had long
     grown fruit trees on the more accessible shores of their islands, especially the Isles of the Heliponaise. They had bred them
     for more succulent fruit, tended them with loving care. Fruit trees were symbols of an untroubled life. Later, various types
     of root and grain had augmented their horticultural repertoire. Add to that the obvious point that the flat upper surface
     of a boat was otherwise mostly wasted space, and matters arranged themselves. Gardening quickly gained popularity: It was
     a relaxing hobby on a long voyage. Of course, it had to be done in a suit, but every boat had at least one of those. And the
     garden had to be carefully laid out so as not to obstruct the rigging. But those were minor details and easily taken care
     of.
    Second-Best Sailor had specialized in fruit: every spare yard of the above-sea deck of his vessel was crammed with stumpy
     trees that grew lumpish blobs of concentrated
taste
that were rather like lemons. These “lemon trees” were planted in tubs, and apart from twice-yearly pruning they needed little
     attention. Mariners adored lemons, and any surplus could easily be traded for cash or kind in the ubiquitous sea bars and
     markets of the ports.
    Second-Best Sailor felt his propulsive organs tighten involuntarily. His garden had been comprehensively ruined. Most of his
     lemon trees had been washed overboard, and those that remained had lost most of their fruit. They were covered in sticky squidlike
     creatures, which were common in surface waters around the time of the Change Winds. Second-Best Sailor uttered a robust mariner
     curse and set to work.
    Before the wind could get up again, or other calamity befall, he made a series of observations of the sun’s position, the
     directions of wind and waves, and any visible landmarks. When these were combined with underwater observations of the ocean
     floor, it should not take him long to work out the boat’s position. He was pretty sure he recognized two of the distant islands
     anyway, particularly the one with the three jagged cliffs, a small one between two larger ones.
    Then he began to pluck the dead but still-sticky squid from the branches of the lemon trees, tossing them over the taffrail.
     Soon a herd of spiny tallfins gathered in the boat’s wake, attracted by the prospect of an easy meal. They were harmless unless
     they in turn attracted one of the large predators, but shugs and gulpmouths were unlikely in these latitudes at this time
     of year.
    He hoped.
    Once the squid were cleared away, it became possible to disentangle the rigging from the trees. Second-Best Sailor could see
     at once that there was no point in trying to save any of the lines except for the main halyards, which had been coiled and
     secured when they lowered the mainsail. Those apart, the whole boat would have to be rerigged, and that required a wet-dock
     and a week’s hard work. But the mainmast was still standing, and he could jury-rig the mainsail by running staylines out along
     the cross-pole. This temporary fix would last until they reached their scheduled destination, and proper repairs would have
     to wait until then.
    He busied himself with the crumpled