Henry Mahuta fastened his belt, attached his sidearm and left the compartment he’d decided to call the head.
Its
original function was an enigma to him. Its chief value to Mahuta now
was a shallow basin into which he squatted and shat when the need arose.
Age had stolen from him the ability to predict his bowel movements, so
the old Marine did plenty of squatting and waiting, just to be sure.
Mahuta
could no longer do the calisthenics that kept him hale and sane at the
start of his long voyage. Instead he practiced yoga and tai chi, long
poses that shook his limbs and made his swirling tā moko tattoos stand
out from his blotched, leathery skin. On bad days, he settled for walks
through the ship.
Today was a bad day.
