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  I’ll do my best to defend Vanessa, if I ever get the chance. Who will defend the man who tried to kill her? And will he do his best for him, his best for the faceless man, tall and well dressed, with the steak knife?

  Who’ll do his best for me? Men with machetes dashing down the corridor, into the fire of my submachine gun … Into the fire of this gun I hold, dashing to their deaths.

  When I’m killed tonight, it will be one more. We all have to die, and I’ve had my dream. Chelle returned to me, still as young and fresh as she had been twenty years ago. That was what I wanted. I got it, and the rest has been anticlimax.

  Would I live for her if I could? No. My living will do her no good and may do her a great deal of harm, but I will live for myself if I can.

  What’s in Stateroom One? And how did Vanessa learn that it was there?

  Did they reach it? She and Chelle? Is Chelle still alive? I must find out if I can, must help her if I can. Would she do the same for me? Certainly, and without a moment’s thought.

  These glass doors are locked. I might climb up or down, but it will be easier to try another veranda forward. As tired as I am—tired, stiff, thirsty, and hungry—that will be the best course. There ought to be a refrigerator inside a first-class stateroom, mixers and snacks. If I put my left arm and my head through this strap or whatever they call it, I can carry the submachine gun slantwise across my back.

  And now up on the railing and step across—carefully, carefully—and the veranda door here is already open.

  How easy it was!

  7. IT’S MY SHIP

  Whether the hijackers would keep the ship’s wind-powered generators in operation had been the question; clearly the answer was yes. The corridors were still well lit, and the elevators still ran, though none would carry a man from B Deck to A Deck. Skip thought it likely that Stateroom One would be on A Deck, and looked.

  It was not. The lowest number on A Deck was ten, and the companionway he had used reached no higher. He was sweating by the time he found another companionway (marked CREW ONLY) that led to the deck above. There a neat bronze plaque announced: SIGNAL DECK.

  The bridge—so marked by a small brass sign—was a dozen paces to his right and up a short stair; voices murmured in Spanish behind its closed door. Nearer was a door bearing a single digit: 1. It was, of course, locked.

  Another door, this at the aft end of the corridor, was not. Skip opened it and stepped out into the night. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he saw that the signal deck was surrounded on three sides by weather decking, the roof of the A Deck staterooms. There were chairs there and a few tables, round tables whose pale white tops were trumped by a full moon. With his empty submachine gun slung across his back, he might pass for a hijacker here.

  As he had expected, a sliding glass door not quite below the port bridge wing promised entry into Stateroom One. As he had also expected, it was locked—or latched, at least. Though it was difficult to judge by moonlight, it did not appear that the security bar was in place. He had defended burglars; but real burglars (he reminded himself wearily) carried burglar tools. He had keys and a few coins, his penknife, and the gun.

  The latch was guarded on the outside by a polished metal molding, probably brass. To the best of his memory, the veranda door of 23C had been latched with a simple hook, raised and lowered by a handle on the inside. He tugged at the molding, without result.

  He could smash the glass with the submachine gun’s steel butt-plate, presumably; but the noise would surely alert the men on the bridge. Glass could be broken with a minimum of noise by taping it first. Unfortunately, he had no tape.

  He dropped into one of the chairs. If only he had a tool—a claw hammer, for example—he could probably bend back the metal molding. That done, a screwdriver or almost any other tool might have served to lift the latch. Would he have to go below again to look (God alone knew where) for tools?

  Half a minute’s thought suggested that it might be possible to bend back the molding with the butt-plate, if he could get it off. Informed by moonlight, his fingertips told him it was fastened by two large screws, and that the screws had wide slots; a coin might serve as a screwdriver.

  He was trying it when his coin discovered a narrow depression in the butt-plate, a depression long enough for him to get the nails of three fingers into it. A firm pull flipped up a lid, and turning the gun muzzle-up dropped objects into his lap. The first was round, presumably a vial of oil; the second proved to be a slotted metal tip trailing a strong cord. The third was a multi-tool that included a coarse screwdriver blade about eight centimeters long.

  It bent the molding easily. Lifting the latch was almost as easy. The glass door slid silently back, and Skip stepped silently in. The stateroom seemed twice the size of the one he had shared with Chelle, although its smaller bed might have been responsible for part of the apparent increase. After drawing the drapes he switched on a desk light.

  The paneled walls held two pictures, both of the Rani. The desk a third—a long-faced, bearded, smiling man in uniform; a pretty woman ten years past youth, also smiling; and three smiling children.

  Files in the desk, and a keyboard and screen front and center. Pencils, pens, paper clips, and paper. Telephone on a nightstand. Printer in the corner. Uniforms and a dinner jacket in the closet; two pairs of shoes, both black and highly polished, on the closet floor. Starched white shirts, underwear, socks, and pajamas in drawers. A tele in a cabinet, books on the shelves beneath it. Could this be all?

  The bathroom door was not quite closed. Skip pushed it open and for a long second saw only the muzzle of a pistol; during that second, its bore seemed the size of a railway tunnel. He raised both hands.

  “Volver,” said the bearded man holding the gun. A circular gesture of his left hand illustrated his meaning.

  “I’m not a hijacker.” Skip turned around. “I’m a passenger, Captain.”

  “A passenger with a submachine gun.”

  “An empty submachine gun. Correct.”

  “Sit down. Right there on the floor.”

  Skip did.

  “Name and cabin number? Class?”

  “Skip Webster Grison, and yes, my first name really is Skip. Stateroom Twenty-three, C Deck. First class—but you know that. B and C are all first-class. A is—”

  “I know what A is. Did you say your gun’s empty?”

  Skip nodded.

  “You killed hijackers with it?” The captain strode past Skip and turned to face him.

  He shrugged. “I tried, Captain, and eight or ten went down. They can’t all have been dead.”

  “Where did you get the gun?”

  “I took it from a dead man.”

  “A dead hijacker? You killed him?”

  “No. Chelle did. I just took his gun.”

  “Chelle is a friend of yours, I take it.”

  “She’s my contracta, Captain. Why don’t I just explain? It will go faster.”

  “Go ahead. Let’s hear it.”

  “Chelle knew somebody had tried to kill her mother. Her mother’s your social director.”

  “You mean Virginia?”

  “Correct. Chelle’s an expert shot and wanted a gun so she could protect her. We went ashore and got one, but we had to go to the other side of the island. By the time we returned you’d put out.”

  “I didn’t. The hijackers did. I thought they might run her aground, but they were lucky. Go on.”

  “I hired a fishing boat to take us out to the Rani. It took most of the day to catch up, but we did. When—”

  “By ‘we’ you mean this woman Chelle and yourself?”

  “Yes, plus Chelle’s mother and a beggar who had been interpreting for us. We took him on the boat because we couldn’t talk to the men who sailed it without him.”

  “I understand.”

  “The hijackers took me on board first, then him, then Virginia, and then Chelle. Chelle had her gun by then, and she knows how to use guns. She killed the
man who had this gun, and I grabbed it.”

  “And shot some more?”

  “Yes. So did Chelle. Three or four others, I’d say. After that she ran. I didn’t realize at first that she was running after her mother, but now I think she was. Chelle can run like a deer, and I couldn’t keep up. I managed to get close enough to ask where we were going, and she said Stateroom One and pointed up.”

  The captain nodded. “Go on.”

  “She got ahead of me again, and I heard shots. All this was on the Main Deck—perhaps I should say that. There was a transverse corridor, and Chelle had turned off it toward the middle of the ship.”

  “She was heading for the elevators, I imagine.”

  “I suppose. All I know is that when I went around the corner myself, I didn’t see either of them, just three hijackers with guns. I shot them, and I was still pulling the trigger when my gun stopped firing.”

  “You didn’t know why those women were coming here?”

  “No. The men I shot seemed to be dead or dying. All of them had guns, and if I’d any sense I’d have picked them up. I stared at the men instead. Then the elevator doors opened, and I ran. Do you want to hear the rest?”

  The captain nodded.

  “I found a card room with an unlocked door and ducked inside. After ten minutes I felt trapped in there, so I went out on deck, climbed on top of a little table, grabbed the rail of the veranda above, and pulled myself up to C Deck. For a while I tried to get to our cabin, but there wasn’t anything in there I wanted. Not really.”

  “Go on, Mr. Grison.”

  “I’m ashamed to. There wasn’t anything, and I was afraid they’d look for me there. If they had Chelle or her mother, they might know our cabin number. So I climbed up to B Deck instead. I hid there until it got dark.”

  “Then you came up here.”

  “Correct.” Skip drew a deep breath. “I hoped Chelle and her mother would be here. They weren’t, as well as I could judge, but I decided to try to get in myself. They’d wanted to go here, and I thought there had to be a reason. Perhaps they just wanted to see if you were still alive.”

  “Hardly. I know what they wanted—or what Virginia wanted, anyway. I’ll show you in a minute. Where are these bastards holding their prisoners? Have you got any idea?”

  “None. But I’m certain they have prisoners. The man who had this gun told me that he was going to hold me for ransom.”

  The captain nodded. “That’s where the money is, ransom for the passengers and the ship. The ship is insured, of course. But when an insurer can get a ship back and return it to its owner, he doesn’t have to pay. Ransoming the ship’s cheaper than paying off.”

  “What happens to passengers who aren’t ransomed?”

  The captain’s smile was grim. “What do you think happens, Mr. Grison?”

  “The crew, too?”

  “If the company won’t pay to get them back, yes, they die. It’s the threat of death that brings the ransoms, so the bastards have to keep the threat credible. I’ll be ransomed, or I think I will. So will you and Chelle, or so I’d imagine. Virginia?”

  “Yes. I’ll call a man who works with me.”

  “Good. But the steward who’s been taking care of your stateroom will die. So will the seamen who’ve been working the ship and a good many more. The actors who put on our live shows, for example, and all our cooks and barmen and croupiers. We carry five crew to every four passengers, Mr. Grison. The Union Employment Administration requires it. Some of our crew were ashore when the ship was taken, but only a few. The hijackers jumped us just before sunrise.”

  “I see.”

  “So did Virginia. She saw what I’m going to show you. She’s a charming woman, isn’t she?”

  “Very.”

  “That’s why I let her see the arms chest. She had no real need to know, but I was showing off. What caliber is that gun of yours?”

  “Nine millimeter parabellum. It’s stamped on it.”

  “Good! That’s what we’ve got—all that we’ve got, in fact. You must know something about guns.”

  “Not much.” Skip sighed. “I’m an attorney, Captain. I’ve defended cases in which guns were involved. That’s all they ever were to me, the prosecution’s Exhibit A. Now I wish I knew as much as Chelle.”

  “Your contracta?”

  “Correct. She was a soldier. Technically she still is, although she’ll be discharged next year. Can I see the arms chest?”

  “Of course. We’ll reload that gun of yours, too.” The captain stepped past Skip. “We’ll have to move the tele. I’ll show you.”

  “May I stand up?”

  “Yes, of course.” The captain offered his hand. Skip took it and stood.

  “It’s fastened down,” the captain said. “Everything is, even my chair. You can’t have furniture sliding around in a storm.” He reached behind the tele cabinet and pulled. “There’s a self-aligning catch, very clever. Now I can push this to one side.”

  He demonstrated, revealing a steel lid with a combination lock. “I’ll bet you were expecting something bigger.”

  “I was,” Skip said.

  “A pistol for each officer. That’s all the company will provide.” The captain was turning the dial. “Three hundred years ago, ships still carried a weapon for every man in the crew, a cutlass or a boarding ax in most cases. Now—well, I shouldn’t talk against management.”

  “You had no chance to issue what you had.”

  “You’re right, I didn’t. I didn’t even have time to arm myself. They caught me right here in my pajamas and held me on the bridge for most of the day. Two of them were taking me somewhere below when they saw a chance to loot and got busy with that. I slipped away and hid. When it seemed that things had quieted down, I came back here. I almost never lock my door. I doubt that a lawyer would believe that.”

  “A lawyer would certainly want to know why.”

  “Because the officer of the watch is under orders to call me anytime anything unexpected turns up, day or night. The bridge is right next door.”

  Skip nodded.

  “I run up there in pajamas and slippers. A robe, too, now and then, but not often. That’s why my door is never locked.” The captain pulled up the steel lid of the arms chest, revealing a row of semiautomatic pistols held in a padded rack. “I locked it behind me when I came in, of course. I got this gun and a spare magazine and locked the chest back up. Then I thought that since I was here I might as well get dressed. That’s what I was doing when you came in.”

  The telephone on the captain’s desk chimed. Both men stared at it, then at each other.

  It chimed again.

  “I think I’d better answer it,” the captain muttered. He seemed to wait for Skip to object; when Skip did not, he added, “It might be important.”

  Skip nodded, and the captain picked up the receiver. The young woman who appeared on the screen was neatly and nautically uniformed. The captain said, “Yes. Speaking.”

  The young woman spoke at length; and the captain said, “As a matter of fact, he’s right here.” He turned to Skip. “It’s for you.”

  Skip accepted the receiver.

  “Mr. Grison? Are you S. W. Grison the attorney, sir?”

  Skip nodded.

  “Of Burton, Grison, and Ibarra?”

  “Correct.”

  “This is the Judge Advocate’s Department, sir. I’m in South Boswash, and I represent the Coast Guard. My name is Lieutenant Fabre. A young woman from your office called to notify the Coast Guard that your ship, the Rani … I think she said the Rani…”

  “Correct,” Skip said again.

  “That it had been attacked by hijackers.”

  “It’s Captain Kain’s ship,” Skip said, “but you’re correct. It has been.”

  “I felt that it might save a great deal of legal wrangling, and expense, if I spoke to you, sir, and clarified our position. The Coast Guard has jurisdiction in NAU territorial waters only, sir. Outsi
de those waters, the UN has jurisdiction. Were you attacked in NAU territorial waters, sir?”

  “No. The Antillian Union.”

  “I see. And are you in NAU territorial waters at present?”

  “I can’t say, although I think it likely. Hold on a moment, please, Lieutenant.” Skip turned to the captain. “We’re headed toward Yucatán, aren’t we?”

  The captain nodded.

  Lieutenant Fabre said, “That was a leading question, sir.”

  “I suppose. We’re not in court at present.”

  The captain said, “If we’re not in NAU waters now, we soon will be.”

  Lieutenant Fabre smiled. “You’ll have to establish that in court, sir. I’m sure you understand.”

  “If we enter NAU territorial waters and are not rescued, there may well be a legal action,” Skip told her. “The Coast Guard could render the entire question moot by rescuing us, however.”

  “I feel sure we’re tracking your position.” Lieutenant Fabre did not sound sure.

  Skip said, “If you don’t mind, Lieutenant, we’re busy here.”

  “I’ll have to check.” Lieutenant Fabre hung up.

  So did Skip.

  “They won’t do it,” the captain told him.

  “You’re probably right, and there’s a chance they may sink us and claim the hijackers did it.”

  “I’ve heard the rumors.”

  “Now then. If you can give me ammunition, I want it. I want a pistol, too. You might consider carrying a couple more yourself.”

  “What for?”

  “To give to anyone who might be able—and willing—to use them. That’s what Virginia had in mind, I’m sure. She had a gun already, and so did Chelle. Most of the passengers will want to sit it out, figuring they’ll be ransomed, but a few will fight. The crew will fight, knowing they’ll be killed.”

  “I see what you mean.” The captain massaged his jaw. “I going to ask you a very personal question, Mr. Grison. If you want ammunition and a handgun, you’re going to have to answer it. That’s not polite, I realize.”