Gregory Benford
AND THE SEA LIKE MIRRORS
Warren wondered how long they had been drifting. Thirty-seven days, the regular cuts in the tree limb said. Rosa had checked each one with him. At noon each day they made the ritual slice with his worn pocket-knife, carefully memorizing each fresh gash as it was made, so they wouldn’t confuse it with the others and think it was made the day before.
“What ya lookin’ at?” Rosa said, blinking out at him from beneath the low lean-to.
“Counting them,” Warren said.
“Thirty-seven,” she said, and he knew from the sound of her voice that she didn’t believe it either. Order, the beauty of number, structure—it was nothing out here. In all those days, how could they have gotten it right?
One or two must have slipped by. Or in the days of delirium, hadn’t he dreamed about sawing down the limb, forcing the days to pass, cutting until his knee slipped in the sweat and he fainted? He couldn’t remember.
“Go back to sleep,” he said. “I’ll be back in. Thought I heard something.”
She sat, listening to the hollow slap of waves against the bottom of the raft. There was only the murmur of the sea and an occasional rattling of metal as their rows of tin cans shifted on the deck. In a moment she lay down again and closed her dark eyes, shutting out the stark yellow of the tropical afternoon.
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Ее содержание можно легко найти (на isfdb, например), содержание - грандиозное. Но саму антологию мы, скорее всего, так и не увидим